


Sandlady

by wildair7



Series: Sandlady Sagas [1]
Category: Logan's Run - Fandom, T'Pira Chronicles
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26845468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildair7/pseuds/wildair7
Summary: Vera 3 is sent to Earth to investigate the existence of Sanctuary, where she arrives in the apartment of a disgruntled DS Operative Francis 7. What ensues disrupts her mission and her planned future. This is the first of 3 Sandlady novellas/novels, all published in the Logan's Run Club, United Sandmen's fanzine Sandman Sentinel from 1977 to 1996. The first two are combined as "Sandlady"
Relationships: Francis 7/Ballard 3, Francis 7/Vera 3, Francis 7/Vera 4, Jessica 6/Logan 5 (Logan's Run)
Series: Sandlady Sagas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/931911
Collections: Fanfiction by Janelle Holmes





	Sandlady

**Author's Note:**

> This "new" story is a re-edited, revised version by me, the author, of what was previously posted on Archive Of Our Own in 2018 as separate chapters, which I think was a problem. I have herewith deleted that version and posted this one as a work in its entirity.
> 
> This particular story is a compilation appearing from 1977-1983 of 2 continuing stories: "Sandlady" and "Sandlady's Return."

**CHAPTER ONE: Day One**

_Twenty-third Hour, Capricorn-Ones. Year of the City 2274_

Everyone assumed a Sandman to be a hormone-driven creature, who indulged his sexual proclivities off duty, but this did not describe a certain DS Operative named Francis 7.

Oh, he had his flings, the occasional group visits to Love Shop, Hallucimill, and partook of Screamers at Sandman parties, as well as the random femflesh available on The Circuit, but these were the exception rather than the norm. While his fellow DS Operatives would leave their shifts and head off in small black clots of twos and threes, he often begged off, citing fatigue. No one challenged him, having learned the hard way through a well-aimed fist to the solar plexus or hard glare that what the formidable Sandman decided brooked no argument. What they couldn't imagine, was the true reason behind his behavior. Boredom. Boredom, since nothing interested Francis anymore, and he no longer found anything in the City new or surprising.

Slumped on the couch where he held a metal bar, a repeated flick of his thumb passed by the holos of female after female on the current Pleasure Circuit, each exhibiting the standard empty-headed leer of lust for his benefit, ignorant—like all before—of their real futures. Perhaps he sickened of the life he led, because so very few citizens truly realized what lay ahead.

“What do they know, the fools? 'Live only for the now,' that's their motto!” He threw the useless bar across the room then dropped heavily onto a nearby pile of huge pillows. “Ignorant children playing games to pass the years,” he mumbled. “For them it _is_ better to die at thirty than to face _this_ boredom!”

Looking about the apartment in contemplation, he bit his thumb then rubbed it under his lower lip in impatience before jumping to his feet. But, whatever action he'd decided upon to relieve his maudlin state of mind, he quickly forgot when a strange sound began from an area near the Circuit Portal. More a whining than the usual buzzing, he realized, the resonance changed in frequency until sparkling molecules of light coalesced to form a striking, yet unusually strange woman, wearing a skinsuit, black on the bottom and silver on the top. He first noticed her darkest hair, the front of which met in a point between grayish eyes and next how those pale eyes searched the room, unafraid but cautious, until they saw him coming toward her. Then they hardened, and the woman's hand darted to the square-shaped gray weapon on her belt.

“Where am I, and who are you?” she demanded.

Filled with curiosity, Francis studied the curvaceous lines of the clinging skinsuit and the intelligent glint in the silver eyes. “I was just about to ask _your_ identity, since you're obviously not from the City.”

She stepped nearer, hand still poised over the weapon. “What city? This is Earth, is it not?”

“Earth? Yeah, this is Earth...in a manner of speaking.”

The woman's eyes narrowed. “What year is this?”

“Twenty-two, seventy-four.”

Her gaze grew colder. “There is no place such as this on Earth, in that year.”

“Ah, but I assure you there is.” A slight smile spread across his face.

But she remained unmoved. “What part of Earth?” she asked.

“Western Hemisphere, the Americas.”

Her attention wandering to the landscape of the City beyond the large window of his unit, the glittering light of mazecars speeding through a series of mazetubes and tall, metallic-appearing buildings reaching for the top of what seemed a series of clear domes, blocking out any harmful substances, her next words came slowly and distinctly.

“Impossible! I know Twenty-third Century America and Earth, and there is no such place as this!”

As she continued to study the City's wonders, Francis stepped quietly nearer, seized her weapon, and when she whirled to react, turned it on her in a flash. But there was no anger in the disconcerting eyes nor any suggestion of fear. Merely exasperation.

“You have made a grave mistake,” she said precisely. “If you accidentally discharge--”

“Fire it?” Francis' laugh came from deep within his throat. “I don't know where you're from or what kind of gun this is, but you're the intruder here, not me! I could terminate you quite easily and no one would know...or care, for that matter.”

Even as she watched him, transferring her weapon to his left hand and picking up his own, more familiar Flamegun from a nearby cube, the woman remained calm. Backed across the room to the disposal slot on the wall, he pushed her gun through it, saying smugly, “That takes care of that!”

“So,” she said, sitting daintily on a nearby pile of pillows and regarding him coolly, “What do you intend to do with me?”

“Are you worried?”

“Merely curious. I see nothing to be concerned about.”

Francis half-laughed. “Nothing to be... Oh, lady, you're really something!”

The strikingly pale eyes riveted on his, and the woman spoke again. “You are only allowed to terminate Runners. You have no authority to kill intruders. This worries you.”

Now it was Francis' eyes which narrowed. “Who _are_ you?”

“I am called L'Pira by some,” she answered, “Vera by others.” Then her mood changed, and she smiled ever so slightly, eyes twinkling like silver quartz in sunlight, as she whispered, “I am an alien.”

Francis was not amused. “If so, then how did you get here?”

The woman's smile vanished. “I do wish you would sit down somewhere. You make me quite uncomfortable.”

Obediently, but slowly, he eased himself onto the top of the circular plasticene table in the room's center but kept his Gun trained on her voluptuous chest.

“You are quite impossible, Francis Seven,” she continued. “You have disposed of my weapon, so how can I possibly harm you? You are an obviously strong man and I a mere woman. Is your strength, therefore, not dominant over mine?”

His bushy brows dipped low over blue-green eyes, shadowing them in further darkness. “You know my name? How?”

“A simple task. You mind is very open.” She leaned back into the pillows' softness and stretched out seductively before continuing. “Do you intend to hold that weapon on me until I die of starvation?”

Her ease in his presence becoming increasingly eerie, he replied, “I hadn't thought that far ahead.” 

"Poor Humans," she rejoined, "thinking of nothing but the present. It amazes me your species has survived this long.”

“A species, I suppose, which doesn't include you?”

“I said I was alien, did I not?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“And, barring some unforeseen miracle, I could be here indefinitely. As you may have guessed, this was not my destination.”

Francis reattached the Flamegun to his weapon belt laying in his lap. “Where _are_ you from?”

“Meldana.”

“Where's that?”

She'd ceased to look at him and, instead, studied the prismed ceiling lights in idle diversion. “Eridani,” she said, at last, “Alpha Eridani.”

“Up there?” he asked, nodding toward the stars beyond the City's domes.

“Mm.”

The gun belt still in his hand, Francis crossed the room to the wall of glass which formed the room's only window.”

“You can't see it from here,” she added. “Wrong time of year and poor magnitude, anyway.”

When he turned and looked at her, she hadn't moved a centimeter since first laying down. Like a sleeping animal, her eyes were closed. Well, he'd wanted something different tonight, and she most decidedly was it!

“Get up!” he ordered.

“No, thank you.”

After striding rapidly to the pillows, he grabbed the woman's arm and dragged her to her feet. “I said, get up!”

The moment their eyes met, hers darkened and his grip relaxed but neither spoke a word. At last, he released her arm and crossed the room, where he opened a small chromed box and asked, “How old are you?”

“Earth or Meldanan years?”

“Earth.”

“About forty, I suppose.”

He turned and silently appraised her body. “You look closer to twenty-six. Your figure's too... _ripe_ for twenty-three. We'll have to make you a Red. Here,” he added, tossing her a small plastic card, “go into that room," he said, indicating a door to his right, "and put this in the slot and change into what's supplied by the processor.”

For a brief moment she stared at the dimpled card then asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“I have to get you to DS Headquarters and can't the way you look now.” His face became sterner. “You'll pass as long as you stop telling people what's on their minds.”

She looked at him, still not moving. “Why do you _have_ to get me to DS Headquarters, wherever that is?”

“So I can figure out what to do with you. Now, go change, and put that thing you're wearing in the disposal slot.”

“Aye, sir!” she answered with a mocking salute and disappeared through the swooshing door to the single bedroom, from which she emerged moments later in a rose-pink tunic of opaque gauze, deeply V-ed in front, as well as back, and semi-sheer hose of the same delicate color encasing her shapely legs. On her left upper arm a wide golden circle of metal encased her surprisingly firm bicep and, about her neck hung a gold-plated ankh suspended from a short golden chain.

But, as soon as Francis noticed the ornament, he tore the chain from her throat. “Don't ever wear that, again!”

“In my world, it is merely an ancient Egyptian symbol of eternal life.”

“I don't care what it is in your world. Here, it means something entirely different, especially when worn by anyone associated with a Sandman. Especially me!” Sudden anger subsiding as rapidly as it had surfaced, he said, “I'm sorry. You're a guest here and should be treated as such.”

“An uninvited guest.”

“What difference does that make? Let's go.”

He guided her by the arm through the opening door of his living unit but, once on the balcony above Arcade, slammed his fist against the railing. “Damn, I forgot the most important thing.”

“Which is?” she asked, less than interested.

Looking into her cool eyes, he answered, “The life-clock,” then pointed to the huge rotating crystal Hand at the opposite end of Arcade. “Every man, woman, and child in the City has a life-clock embedded into their left palm at birth.”

“Is there not some way you can simulate this devise?”

“Not until we get to Headquarters. You'll just have to keep your left hand out of sight til we're there. Maybe this late at night, we won't run across too many people.” Sighing with resignation, he slipped his arm about her waist. “All right, let's get started.”

Fortunately, Arcade was empty at that hour, except for a single, patrolling Sandman, who nodded recognition as Francis drew nearer with the strange woman. 

The other Sandman, this one's obvious senior, smiled, and said, “A Red, Francis? I thought you went for Greens.” 

“Even a Sandman likes a little maturity now and then, Damon," Francis said and Vera felt him hold her closer.

When the other laughed and passed on, Francis muttered, “Forty years’ worth!” 

In reaction, Vera merely raised an dark eyebrow.

Around a corner, a mazecar awaited the duo and once inside, the transport moved swiftly away. As it sped its way to DS Headquarters, the Domed City flashed by on either side of the transparent tube, the more distant landmarks being pointed out by Francis. Upon reaching Headquarters Station, the car slid slowly to a stop and the doors glided back, giving access to what seemed an endless tier of golden-gray stairs, in contrast to the bright gold of the building's glass walls.

“What now?” Vera asked as they mounted the first of the fifty-odd steps.

“Implantation and then Retrogram.”

“Retrogram?” She looked at him, quizzically, noticing his prominent cheekbones seemed more defined in the semi-darkness than in his living unit, a fact which reassured her she'd made no mistake.

“You'll see,” was all he said in answer.

Higher and higher the elevator took them inside the golden building until it reached Computer Center. On the right, four huge crystals, one each of blue, yellow, green, and red, adorned one wall, immediately catching Vera's attention. When she stopped at the foot of the glowing red one, Francis with her, he held out his left hand, palm up, for her to see. She understood, at once, then followed as he entered the adjoining room and approached a descending lighted console, domed with a glass ball a meter high and touched something within.

A sultry, feminine voice broke the room's silence with its precise, lulling tones. “IDENTIFY.”

“Francis Seven.”

“PURPOSE?”

“Integration.”

The room's eerie vacuum dominating, as the source traced its elusive memory banks for the long-ago coded word. Finally, the voice spoke again. “SUBJECT?”

Glancing quickly at Vera, beside him, Francis replied, “Female, name Vera, approximate age...Red-Three, Indefinite.”

“BIRTHDATE?” the computer cooed.

Another glance at Vera, she replied, “July Seven, Earth Time.”

Francis nodded. “Cancer-Sixteen.”

“ACKNOWLEDGED.”

Francis took Vera's left hand and placed it carefully, palm down, on the silver cone at the console's center. When the light inside the dome intensified, she felt a slight pressure on her palm, a sensation soon gone as the light dimmed before returning to normalcy.

“IMPLANTATION COMPLETE. PREPARE SUBJECT FOR RETROGRAM.”

Vera removed her hand and stared at her palm, where a red crystal stared back, one identical to that in Francis' palm. He next led her to the chair before the computer screen nearby and, once she sat, lowered the headgear-type harness .

“Your hands must touch the plates at all times,” he explained, then added, a bit reluctantly, “Try to relax; it might hurt.”

“I am capable of controlling pain. It is but a thing of the mind.”

The Sandman shook his head in obvious exasperation then continued, “This is just a precaution against the discovery of your real identity while you're here. Once the computer records your fingerprints, brain waves, and so forth, it'll issue your identification cards. To all appearances, you'll have been a citizen of a Domed City all your life. What's more, the computer will verify it.”

Her eyes searched his face as she said, “But--”

“Hush! Retrogram!”

“RETROGRAM INITIATED.”

Once the procedure had begun, Francis watched Vera's face remain unmarred except for a brief moment near the end of the five minutes, when her eyes shut tightly but showed nothing else of the pain he knew must exist. His opinion of her increased.

“RETROGRAM COMPLETE,” intoned the computer's sultry voice. With the headgear lifted, Vera tried to rise but was unable, where upon Francis came to her side in an instant and supported her weight.

“It'll last only a minute or two, but you'd better stay on your feet.”

In answer, she nodded weakly.

Within minutes, the identification cards shot from a slot on the lighted console into Francis'

waiting hands. “You are now Vera Three, my little alien...Vera...Three.”

“Vera Three,” she murmured, leaning against his broad chest. “Vera...Three.”

“Yeah, that's right. Back to the quad now. There's a lot to do tomorrow.”

A voice alarm awoke the two the next day the same as everyone in the Domed City. “SIXTH HOUR, LASTDAY CAPRICORN-TWOS, YEAR OF THE CITY TWENTY-TWO-SEVENTY-FOUR.”

“Four weeks of Capricorns,” Francis said, afterwards. “That means lots of Runners—always are in Capricorn. They're a paranoid bunch!”

Vera sat up on the bed where she'd slept, wearing something the clothing processor called a sleep gown, although it felt like very thin silk, slippery and exotically calming against her skin. Across the room stood the impressive figure of Sandman Francis 7 near the pallet, where he'd slept, fastening his weapon belt over the waist of his black tunic with its broad, quilted gray chest band.

“What did you say?” she asked, once her mind could focus from the impressive sight of him.

“Capricorns,” he pronounced slowly, “they're paranoid.”

“Oh, yes, I quite agree. I never knew a Terran Capricorn who was not, to one degree or another.”

Francis walked toward her with the chromed box in one hand, thumbing through it with the other, then tossed a card at her. “Try a different one today. I don't care much for the other. Sorry I can't offer you any other color.”

She caught the card and watched while his broad-shouldered form left the room, before placing the small flat object into the slot behind the bed.

Moments later, she walked into the living area, wearing a more metallic, pink tunic, less sheer than the one worn previously, with a high neck and no back.

As she entered, Francis nodded his approval over the rim of a cup of steaming liquid he held with both hands. “Much better.” He motioned toward the cup. “Have some?”

“Some what?”

“Nutrient. Mostly sea stuff. About all we get here.”

“I suppose I have little choice.”

“Oh, there's plenty of choice...in appearance. The stuff's formed to resemble about anything you could want, even taste that way, but it's still the same thing. This is just a more logical form, as far as I'm concerned.”

“At least it smells good.” 

“Tastes pretty good, too.” Another cup inserted into a nearby cubbyhole, he idly watched it fill. “You're probably better off here today. Tomorrow I'm off duty and can show you around...familiarize you with the City.”

“You will be hunting Runners today?” 

He nodded. “It's a job.”

“A means to an end,” she replied wisely.

The Sandman regarded her coldly. “Why'd you say that?”

“I deemed it appropriate.”

Still appearing wary, he handed the steaming cup into her waiting hands. “Be careful, Vera, be _very_ careful!”

She took a sip of the hot liquid and peered at him over the cup's rim, smiling. “I fully intend to do exactly that, Francis.”

“I need to go, now,” he said. “Don't open that door to anyone! Don't talk to anyone, even if they come and scream their heads off. Some of these Runners can be pretty dangerous, even the women.”

A moment of pensiveness passed across Vera's face. “It seems odd," she mused aloud. "I wonder, has there ever been a female Sandman? Do you not think they would be the logical choice to deal with female Runners? They could reason with them on their own emotional level.”

“None of the female applicants have met our qualifications.” He stood before the door, hands on hips. “Why, do you think you'd qualify?”

She smiled again over the cup's rim. “Perhaps.”

“We'll talk about it later. I'm already late.” He pointed a finger at her in reprimand. “Remember what I said.”

When the door closed behind him, Vera placed the cup on the table and returned to the bedroom, where she searched under the small pillow pile in the corner and came up with her reward—a small black rectangle, which she held to her lips.

“L'Pira to _Cresas_. Report to Commander Tregar as follows: contact made with Subject Culture and Target Subject One—based these coordinates.”

“Are you following our plan?” asked a voice she recognized as Commander Tregar, himself.

“No, it would never work here. This culture is all we have heard and more. But I cannot possibly make a conclusion in the usual time. It may take as long as three Earth months.”

“ _Three_ Earth _months_!”

“Affirmative.”

“L'Pira, you are overstepping your authority!”

“My authority?” she said with a laugh. “There are no bounds to _my_ authority!”

“You are sponsored by the Committee.”

“Only officially. All expenses are mine.”

“Well, then, _have_ you discovered the location of Sanctuary?”

“That is why I need far more time, Tregar. You do not barge in on Humans and expect them to reveal their innermost secrets, _Tregar_!”

“That _is_ your mission..., _L'Pira!_ ”

“I shall report again in forty-eight Earth hours. L’Pira out!” Even as she pressed the hidden button, Vera fought the urge to push the devise into the disposal slot. But the moment quickly passed. Once again, Meldanan control had overcome her volatile, native inheritance from the Adani half of her genetic makeup.

The twenty-third hour passed with the usual intonation of the City's computer before Francis returned to their apartment. After slowly entering through the opening door, he leaned against the wall and regarded his tempting alien guest, who stood by the huge window. On his entrance, those gray eyes returned his tired gaze with softness, then left to watch the scene outside. The new tunic did little to retard his desire for her. Although only her back was bare, his hands longed to run down the exposed smooth indentation down the center.

“You are weary,” she remarked, not facing him. “How many Runners did you 'terminate'?”

“Eleven.”

“Then it is no wonder you are weary.”

“You eat anything?”

“Yes, some time ago. Actually, though, I require very little sustenance on a day-to-day basis. You should not concern yourself if I miss one or two meals.”

Francis staggered toward her, his finger pointed. “That's another thing,” he said, filled with sudden anger. “You've got to stop talking like a damn--”

“Yes?” she said, turning to face him.

His hands erased the air. “Hell, I don't know. All I do know, is I need some sleep. Do whatever you want. I won’t be responsible.”

He started for the sleeproom, and Vera rose to follow.

“Francis...”

He whirled about, eyes half-closed. “What?”

“I will not betray you.”

“You don't know enough to betray me!” With those words, he closed the door in her face, shutting her in the living area.

Moments later, he heard her tapping on the door and her soft voice, saying, “Francis?”

With his own voice low and barely audible, he replied, “What the hell is it, now?”

“I think I shall go for a walk through Arcade.”

A ruffling sound followed this announcement, and he bellowed, “You do, and you'd better be able to care for yourself, 'cause I won't!”

On the other side of the door, he heard, “You are correct. I shall stay here...where I am safe.”

“Good,” he mumbled and again heard a ruffling sound, followed by a great sigh.

Fourteen more minutes passed, according to the chronometer in the living area, and Vera again tapped on the door. “Francis?” But there was no answer.

With a single finger, she touched the pressure plate, causing the door to open, and crept silently toward the bed and the sleeping Sandman. In cautious deliberation, her hands reached out, the first two fingers of each touching his temples, while her eyes closed in concentration. Assured he slept deeply, a smile of satisfaction crossed her lips, and she moved cautiously to where Francis' uniform lay in a heap on the floor. Even though she was quite thorough in her search, it revealed nothing of interest nor benefit. Vera was more than discouraged.

Kneeling on the floor beside the bed, she stared at the man's sleeping form, seeing he'd not bothered to undress. “I will gain his confidence,” she softly told herself. “Already he trusts me much, and that's how I shall learn what I seek. Tomorrow.”

**CHAPTER** **TWO: Day Two**

The sound of Computer's voice intoning, _Sixth Hour, Year of the City 2274, Lastday Capricorn-Threes, Born 2244...,_ awakened Francis, and he stirred. It was while tossing his body from one side of the bed to the other, he realized his completely nude state. _Funny_ , he thought, _I don't remember undressing._ Opening his eyes, with great difficulty, first one then the other, the first image that blurred into focus was Vera studying him from where she sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Didn't you sleep?” he slurred.

“My need for sleep is less than yours. I require very little.”

“I should've guess,” he answered tersely. “You need less of _everything_ than I do, probably even-- Oh, forget it!” That said, he rolled away from her.

“Which would be difficult,” he heard.

But Francis said nothing in reply.

“If it would please you,” she went on, “I shall endeavor to behave more human in the future.”

“Would, indeed,” he mumbled.

Now he heard, “You said you would show me the City today, remember?”

He turned back to her. “I did, didn't I?” Running fingers through his curly, long dark hair, he said, “All right, get out so I can dress.”

“I could not possible see anything I have not seen countless times in the course of my medical profession and missions on other worlds.”

“I said, 'Out,'” he roared, sitting up, upon which the thin sheet covering him, slipped to his hips.

Seeing a half smile on her face, he watched as she slowly rose to her feet and left, closing the door behind her.

A Sandman never goes anywhere—even off duty—without his Flamegun, so it was the last thing Francis checked before leaving the sleeproom. As always, he found Vera looking out the huge window, comprising an entire wall of his apartment. Wearing the tunic he selected for her the day before, she seemed as fresh and relaxed as a young child, in spite of her lack of sleep. Except no child could affect a pose—so innocent, yet so provocative, at the same time. The morning light on her dark hair and pale face seemed to radiate unearthly qualities, and the drape of the rose-colored fabric appeared to cling to her shapely body with a sensuous life of its own. Seeing her like that, he knew he'd be crazy to pass up a chance like this...and crazy if he acted on it, because something about her...perhaps that ultra-intelligent glint in her eyes...frightened him.

As he entered the room, she turned and surveyed him. “Must you always wear that dreary black thing?”

“This dreary black thing, as you call it,” he replied, walking toward her, “is a badge of respect in the City. I've worn black since that day I was born, as has every Sandman since the beginning.”

Now her eyes impaled his. “And just how long _have_ you been wearing black, Francis Eight?”

“Twenty-eig..."

When she smiled at his inability to complete the answer and neared him, he felt her hands slip up his shoulders, then heard, “Come now, Francis, we both know you're much older than twenty-eight.”

At first he couldn't take his eyes from hers. Then he seemed to see her whole face at once—the silvery eyes, the ebony hair, the full, moist pink lips. Suddenly, though, the features enlarged, blurring, only to clear into the most desirably soft lips he'd ever seen. His hands moved about her waist, drawing her closer, until his mouth touched hers. But, even while he savored the sweetness of her kiss—blinded to all else—Vera's eyes remained wide open, glinting with satisfaction.

Feeling her pull away from his embrace, so slowly he hardly noticed, he heard her say, “I think we understand each other now. Don't we, Francis?”

Caressing her cheek, he smiled for the first time in days. “Yes, I think we do.” Since, in that moment, he realized this woman comprised the missing piece of his life.

“You know, Francis Seven, you're the perfect Sandman," she said, stroking his arm and her eyes following the movement, "handsome and disarming when you smile, the visage of Death when you're angry. You cause even me to shudder at times such as those.”

“I'm supposed to have that effect." He wanted to kiss her again, just because of the overwhelming affection consuming him for this woman. Not lust, not the need for possession. She was different than other women of the City he'd met...very different.

Still holding her close but separating their bodies, he regained control of his emotions and said, "But now, you must see the City.”

It took most of the day to cover it all, and the last place Francis showed Vera was Arcade. It was there, just outside the entrance to the Great Hall, they saw one of his closest friends.

“Logan, wait!”

A tall blond DS Operative changed direction and came toward them. “Where have you been the last two days, Francis?” he asked. “I thought we'd go down to--,” but stopped short when he came close enough to appraise his friend's companion. “Never mind where you've been. I think I can guess.” Reluctantly turning his attention to Francis' smiling face, he said, “New?”

“Very new.”

“Hmm, Logan said, “not too new, I hope. After all, a Red.”

Vera saw Francis grin and felt him draw her closer. “This Red is different. She wants to be a Sandman.”

“A woman! No woman could ever meet all the requirements.” Logan chuckled. “Besides, we were picked as Sandmen before seeing the light of day.”

“I've told her all that, but she's still quite determined. I suppose I'll have to take her down to Headquarters tomorrow and convince her she could never make it.”

Logan nodded in agreed amusement. “Even if she did qualify, which I doubt, there's all the training. We've been hunting Runners since we were Greens, and she's already a Red. There are no Red trainees, so what could she possibly learn in what...three or four years?”

Vera looked at Francis and then to Logan. “I learn very quickly.”

Francis gazed on her affectionately. “I don't doubt it, though I can't see you terminating anyone.”

Her cool gray eyes met his with deadly seriousness. “I could kill anyone, if there was a reason...even you, Francis.” At that, the amused smiles dropped from both men's faces, Francis' becoming very stern.

A beeping signal on Francis' belt interrupted the tense moment. The Follower removed from

his belt, he held the multi-function device to his mouth and spoke into the tiny holes of its vocal pickup. “Francis Seven.”

“Unidentified Runner sighted in Quad G, Beta Sector, near lake. Logan Five assist.”

“Logan Five with me. Acknowledged.” The devise replaced, Francis turned to Vera. “All right, let's find out how good you are...if you can keep up, that is.”

Still running as they neared the lake, Logan was surprised when he looked back and saw Vera less than a meter behind Francis, running lightly and quietly on her toes, not the least winded. Then Francis stopped and pointed ahead.

“There!” he said, as a red-clad woman disappeared around a pale obelisk less than twenty meters away. “Logan, go around the back, toward the lake, and flush her out. But hold your fire, if possible. We'll get her from this side.” When Logan had left, Francis looked at Vera beside him and handed her his Flamegun. “Know how this works?” His gaze returned to where the Runner hid.

With weapon in hand, she studied it briefly. “I think so.”

“Make sure. You're terminating this one.”

“You do require a lot of a girl, don't you?”

“Nothing I wouldn't ask of myself.” His head nodded. “All right, there she is. Prove yourself.”

With instinctive precision, Vera spread her legs a third of a meter apart and pointed the Flamegun at the racing target, then sucked in a lungful of air and prepared her voice. But the tones that issued from her throat shook even Francis, for they were more of a loud guttural hiss as they erupted from her lips.

“Runner!”

The woman stopped and turned at the horrible sound, blond and wide-eyed. A day ago she would have been laughing and cheering the Sandmen on, but now she was their prey. Things were very different. She began to run again, this time for her life!

Again, the same threatening voice called her as Vera roared, “Stop, Runner!” Instead of halting, the woman kept running, and Francis turned his attention on Vera.

Her eyes had not softened, as he thought they might. Her face remained unmoved, still set with deadly intent. Suddenly, the Gun erupted its green flame and the Runner dropped.

Logan ran to join Vera as she walked at a normal pace, weapon still poised in her hand,

toward the corpse, while Francis stood, watching. “That was fantastic!” Logan shouted. “A moving target and your first shot, too.”

Francis now came to the site of the kill, talking into his Follower. “Runner terminated, fifteen-thirty-four.”

“Ready for identification,” Headquarters replied. Francis held the devise over the Runner's already death-pale face. “Identification confirmed. Denise Six. One-four-five-six-three. Search and report. We'll send the Stickmen for cleanup.”

“Acknowledged.”

“By the way, Francis,” Headquarters said now, “we were all wondering, who terminated her, you or Logan?”

“Neither, Headquarters.”

“Neither? Repeat that, Francis Seven.”

“I said, neither. It was Vera Three.”

“Uh, repeat.”

“Vera Three. A female. You'll meet her soon, I promise.”

“Looking forward to it. HQ clear.”

Francis clipped the Follower on his belt. “You search her, Vera. It's your kill.”

Handing Logan the three items—a few pieces of colored gravel and a metal chain—she rose and turned to Francis with thinly disguised anger in her eyes. “I thought you'd be more pleased,” she remarked. “If you're offended, or I've somehow affronted your precious masculinity, why'd you bring me along?”

Francis turned to Logan, momentarily ignoring her. “Make the report, will you, Logan?”

Vera bristled and slowly demanded, “Answer me, Francis!”

Grabbing her arm, he led her toward the nearest mazecar station.

“Francis!” she said when he did, still obviously upset, and becoming increasingly fed-up with men grabbing her arm and leading her about like a domestic animal.

“You did fine—better than I expected. No, you didn't injure my masculinity. I'm just confused, is all. I've been confused ever since you showed up.”

A mazecar waited, and they got in. Francis leaned forward and punched in their destination.

“Where are we going?” Vera demanded.

“Home.” He leaned back and took her hand, then suddenly grinned. “It's been a long day, and tomorrow'll be longer. There's going to be some guys at Headquarters blowing their minds, trying to figure out how you became a Sandman.”

“You really think I can qualify?”

“You just did. That was ten kilometers you ran. Logan and I are the two fastest Sandmen there are, and you kept up with us. You hit a moving target at thirty meters with one shot and an unfamiliar weapon. You didn't freeze for a second. Even your initial hesitation was controlled. “But,” he continued, “they'll have to measure your strength, stamina, and all that, to see how well you can do at maximum output, see how skilled you are in self-defense or your abilities in hand-to-hand combat with men and women. I just hope you're not too good.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There're some pretty big egos up there.”

“And yours?”

“Big but tolerant. And I want to see you make it.”

The car stopped. “Well, we're here.” Suddenly, he grew quite serious, again. “Vera, if you could go back to where you belong, would you?”

She disguised her momentary hesitation well, touching his cheek while she rapidly thought up an appropriate answer. “No, my place is here, now.” Little did she realize how much she meant it at the time.

Many times over the last decades, she'd taken on other assignments, other missions, which involved intimate contact, and one of the many reasons she had volunteered for this one. She could lie convincingly, surrender to masculine dominance--at least to all intents--and not once had renounced her stoic resolve to not be involved emotionally, despite the attractiveness of her opposite sex target.

As the apartment door opened, a disturbing sight met their eyes—the place was a shambles.

“Who could have done this?” Francis screamed, picking up the spilled contents of the chromed box off the floor. “ _Why_ would anyone do this?”

Vera up-righted the toppled table and put other things in their proper places. Outwardly, she

remained objectively calm, but was inwardly angry, certain she knew the party responsible for

the destruction, and Francis' obvious displeasure increased hers.

That night, they relaxed on the flow sofa, watching an old, Twenty-First Century movie by the name of _Pirates of the Carribbean, Dead Man's Chest_. Both relaxed, they lounged, rather than sat, laughing at the often humorous portrayal of the character in the person of Johnny Depp, and eating processor popcorn from a common bowl. The film ending, Vera stretched her arms far above her head, and Francis, unable to further resist, took her in his arms and kissed her with more depth of feeling than before. In return, Vera responded fully, while Francis caressed and stroked her wherever his hands wanted. 

Within the sleeproom, they undressed each other, Francis' lips finding whatever tempting part of flesh he found revealed. In bed, they finalized what the previous actions had predicted.

Vera had been with many men in the course of her missions, but none had been the considerate, skilled lover like Francis. Only one other man had ever existed. But more than this Sandman's talented love-making, something else impressed itself upon her brain--a change of emotion within her, a softening of regard like only once before. At first, she disallowed this renewed feeling, remembering her time here was limited and sex the prescribed manner of gaining a target's trust. She must remain objective and not become emotionally involved with any target. That was forbidden and detrimental to the success of a mission. Nevertheless, her objectivity had been compromised.

Sometime after the third hour of the next day, Vera awoke and placed her fingers on Francis' temples. Assured he was deeply asleep, she slid out of bed, nude, found her small, black communication devise and went to the farthest part of the living area.

There, she softly spoke into the com. “L'Pira to _Cresas_ , reporting to Commander Tregar. I will speak to no other.”

“Tregar here. What do you have to report?”

Her voice was calm. “Are you responsible for the intrusion here, Tregar?”

“You seemed to be making no progress, so thought I would help you—see if we could find some items that might assist you.”

“You fool!” she hissed. “At least my searches did not disrupt anything. Do you realize your clumsy actions may have ruined any chance I have of completing this mission?”

“I did what I considered best!”

“If you interfere once more, Tregar, I shall see to it, as Matriarch of Meldana, you stand

before the High Council for treason. Is that clear?”

“Quite clear..., _Your Worthiness_.”

“I shall report again within seventy-two hours.” She closed her fist around the devise and started back to the bedroom, but an equally nude Francis blocked the way.

“Who were you talking to?”

Unable to think of an evasive answer, she truthfully replied, “My ship.”

“Then your being here isn't accidental, is it?”

She turned away from him, unable to meet his accusing stare. “No, it isn't.”

As he came up behind her, he asked, “Why, Vera, why?” 

Facing him and his face wrinkled with puzzlement, she tried to explain. “When I said there was no place like this on the Earth I knew in Twenty-two-seventy-four, I didn't lie, because this isn't the Earth I knew. The one I knew exists in my universe, my continuum, another continuum, not this one. Our intrusion in yours was planned.”

She turned her face from him and continued, “At any rate, we began to study this society, the City here. We even picked up some of the Runners and questioned them. All said they sought a place called Sanctuary.”

Again, she faced him. “There were those in our universe who thought your society should be exterminated for this method of population control, and I disagreed...even volunteered to prove the worth of your method.” Her eyes met his blue-green ones, directly. “But that worth can exist only if there truly is a Sanctuary. The killing of child-like adults to control the numbers is one thing, but if there is no place the intelligent, the strong, and the clever can survive to repopulate the Earth with their kind...their superior beings, then your system is wrong.”

“So, how did you come here...to my apartment?”

“One of the Runners, one who possessed the ankh I wore that first day, said you'd help.”

Francis turned and walked away. “Then you _will_ leave...once you've completed your _mission_?”

“I was going to, but didn't plan for this to happen...between us." For that second of confession, Vera acknowledged her feelings for this man standing so confidently before her in all his natural masculine form. "I just don't know, now, if I'll leave or not.”

“What do you mean, this that’s happened between us? Me finding out about you?” Again, he faced her.

“No, not that.”

“Then what?”

“Do _you_ want me to return to my ship, my continuum, Francis, or do you want me to stay?”

“I want...” His eyes darkened with confusion. “Uh, you, you're the first woman I've ever been able to carry on an intelligent conversation with, or more than a few minutes with in bed, much less an entire night.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I suppose it means I want you to stay.”

“For that reason, alone?” She watched him across the room, struggling with his mixed emotions, evident in the way his eyes shifted and the furrow in his fine brow.

“There must be more to our relationship, Francis, if I'm to stay in this society," she added, "risking my life everyday on the chance my true identity will be discovered.” Unable to read the sidelong glance he cast in her direction, she spoke again. “Would you have preferred I’d appeared in Logan's apartment, instead of yours?”

His answer was immediate and without forethought. “No!”

Vera sighed. “Francis, after you kissed me yesterday, you agreed we understood each other. Why did you agree?”

“I don't remember agreeing.”

She threw her arms in the air and headed for the sleeproom. “You are impossible! I'm getting some sleep.”

Her departure left Francis with a deeper frown on his face. _Why_ did _he want her to stay?_ he asked himself. _Why did this particular woman make him glad she came to him, rather than Logan?_ If Logan had Vera, Francis would have been mad as Hell, especially now, since he knew her. And he'd never felt that way about a woman before. _Why was that?_ He started for the sleeproom but stopped in the open doorway.

Snuggled there beneath the bed-covers, she looked like a small child: the sweet half-smile, the soft fair skin, the sleep-tousled hair. She didn't belong here, though, he reminded himself. She belonged on Meldana...wherever that was!

_She's a ruler of some kind there, too,_ he continued silently, _and yet, she'd give it all up to stay with me. All I have to do is tell her why. Has my mind been so addled by the City I can't recognize what I feel when I look at her? Or have I become so hardened, by terminating Runners all these years, I don't_ care _what I feel?"_

Turned from the doorway, he went to the tiered couch, stretched out on it, as best he could, and closed his eyes. Finally, he slept.

**CHAPTER THREE: Day Three**

Vera came in just as Francis was coming awake. “Come on, lazy, rise and shine. Time to get me initiated as a Sandman.”

He sat up, covered only in a thin sheet of synthvelour, regarding her through sleep-hazed eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

She held out some black clothes draped over her arm. “Brought you these fresh from the processor.”

“Maybe that's why I want you to stay,” he said, taking them, “'cause you take such good care of me.”

She smiled faintly. “Perhaps, or maybe only part of it.”

Once he'd pulled the tunic over his head, he stood up, looking for his Gun and utility belt.

“In the sleeproom, remember?” she provided, almost psychically.

As he walked past her, Francis swatted Vera on the rump. “Thanks, kid. Knew you had to be good for something.”

When they arrived at HQ, Vera drew more than one stare from the other Sandmen and a big grin from Logan, who had Runner Monitor duty that day. “You're really serious?” he whispered to Francis as the couple passed.

“You saw her yesterday. Don't you think that merits more investigation?”

The room Francis led Vera into proved to be a gymnasium. “This is where I'll test you. Everything, all the equipment, is gauged to register when you become fatigued. First, we'll test your strength.” After motioning her to sit on a table, he strapped her legs into individual braces. “Lift them up and down as fast as you can for as long as you can, alternating each leg, as if

running.” Fifteen minutes passed before she began to showing signs of tiring, and he recorded the results. “You just ran twenty kilometers and never broke a sweat. Not bad at all.”

“What's the best you or Logan can do?”

He pointed a finger at her. “You're trying to deflate my ego, again, aren't you?”

“No, just curious.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Come on.”

“Fifteen,” he said as lowly as possible, coughing in the middle of the word. He met her eyes, and they both broke into laughter. “I'd better warn you,” he added while unstrapping her legs, “if you do this good in all the tests, there's going to be some very angry Sandmen.”

She smiled and jumped off the table. “What's next?”

“Treadmill and then the written tests.”

The treadmill test finished, Francis was just as amazed and more amazed, after guiding Vera through the battery of tests designed to weed outsiders from the ranks of the City's elite police force, easily passing each one. While they walked down the corridor to Computer Central, he thumbed through the statistics on his techtablet.

“We'll feed these results into Thinker through CC, but I'm sure you'll be approved. Afterward, you'll be assigned an exact DS level, so we'll know where to place you." Destination reached, he transferred the data, via cable into the computer framework, then, with Vera close beside him, waited.

A dark figure crept up behind them and said, “What'd it say?”

Francis turned to see Logan. “Nothing yet.”

Just then Computer spoke. “VERA THREE APPROVED FOR ACTIVE DUTY WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS.”

“Acknowledged,” Francis replied.

Logan grinned and clapped Vera on the back, saying, “See ya in the showers,” and left at a trot.

When she turned to a likewise grinning Francis, she asked, “What did he mean by that?”

Francis laughed. “We only have one shower room in the gym, but you can always wait and

shower at home. For now, it's time to find you some proper clothing.”

“YOU HAVE NOT BEEN GIVEN PERMISSION TO LEAVE, FRANCIS SEVEN,” purred Computer .

“I apologize. What is it?”

“YOU AND VERA THREE ARE TO PROCEED TO REGENERATION COMPLEX AFTER OBTAINING HER UNIFORM. YOU ARE FAMILIAR WITH ALL PROCEDURES, FRANCIS SEVEN?”

“Yes, I am. Do you... Question: do you mean Vera Three is to be a seed-mother?”

“I DO,” said Computer, “BUT THIS SHALL BE A GIRL CHILD. SHE SHALL BE VERA FOUR. ALREADY THERE IS A FRANCIS EIGHT.”

“Understood.”

“DO YOU AGREE, VERA THREE?”

She looked at Francis, a bit confused. “Yes, I agree.”

“THEN YOU ARE DISMISSED.”

Walking unhurriedly back to Control Center, Francis began, “Is it possible for a Human and Meldanan to...?”

“I don't know,” she whispered in reply. “Probably.”

“Gentlemen,” Francis announced entering Control Center, “I'd like you to meet our newest Sandman, Vera Three."

The men turned as one from their stations. A tall, wiry one looked Vera up and down then laughed. “You don't expect us to believe this, do you, Francis? Come on, what's the joke?” The man's features were hard and angular as he proceeded to sneer in jest.

Francis grabbed the front of the man's tunic. “No joke, Jonathan! Thinker’s approved her, completely.” He released the man abruptly. “If any of you think she's not qualified, look at these test results.” He thrust the tablet at Jonathan and took Vera into the next room.

“They will not readily accept me, Francis,” she said as he did.

“You're talking like a damn alien, again.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Let's see,” he said, sitting at the computer console, “maybe our mechanical mind has figured out your uniform by now. Step into that chamber there, and I'll operate this thing.”

She did as told, and he sat at the console, facing away from her and turned the first of the three dials. The rose-colored tunic disintegrated, leaving her nude. He purposely avoided turning and looking at her and turned the second dial. Darkness covered her, gradually, leaving a band of gray across her breasts. He turned the third dial and a plastic card slid out of the small slot on his left. “Okay, you can come out.”

But, when Francis swiveled in his chair to get his first look at the City's only female Sandman, he gasped. Her tunic was identical to his, except tailored to her more feminine curves. And, instead of opaque black knit tights, she wore more translucent, nearly sheer black hose and calf-high black boots, unlike the ones he wore to the top of his ankle. The same Gun belt around her slender waist held a Flamegun and Follower with the accompanying pouch.

Seeing her, Francis smiled as she came to him and took her into his arms. “I knew you'd look great in black.”

“Do I look fearsome?”

“So much so, I think I'll kiss you.”

“Is that all you think?”

Before Francis could answer, he heard Logan say, “You two need privacy?”

Francis turned, feigning anger. “Logan, you have the damnedest talent for showing up when I don't need you.”

“Thought I'd come and see what Thinker whipped up for her to wear, being the first female DS and all. Say, not bad," he said, with what Francis considered a slightly lustful grin. "Not bad at all! Full Operative!” Logan suddenly grabbed Vera's hand, tearing her away from a startled Francis. “Now, let's celebrate, and I've got the perfect thing for a new Sandman—Carrousel!”

Quickly catching up with them, Francis reclaimed his woman. “Hands off, Logan. I don't share this one.”

Relinquishing her, Logan displayed a broad-mouthed grin. “Didn't much think so. We can still celebrate, though, can't we?”

The three black figures dispersed more than one group of citizens as they made their way to the Great Hall and the huge red crystal, marking the entrance to Carrousel. They were just in time to hear the call: “CAPRICORN-FOURS, YEAR OF THE CITY TWENTY-TWO-SEVENTY-FOUR, BORN TWENTY-TWO-FORTY-FOUR. CARROUSEL BEGINS.”

“Francis,” Vera whispered, drawing closer to him, “Computer said to proceed--”

“This won't take long, and then we'll go.”

The lighting darkened as they entered the huge, circular auditorium and found their seats. At the center of the floor was a gigantic red crystal, like the one in Arcade's huge Hand. Electrical music began playing and ten white-robed figures entered the floor from a side door. The crowd burst into roars of approval as those ten figures wearing gruesome white death masks took their places around the red crystal and discarded their robes, revealing flame-patterned, red and white skinsuits. Finally, the floor on which the Lastdayers stood began to revolve, and the crowd's approval increased with shouts of “Renew!” filling the air.

Logan leaned across Vera and remarked to Francis, “Not many tonight. Too many ran, I guess.”

“You're probably right. Capricorn is always a bad month for Carrousel.”

Now Logan's voice joined the others, caught up in the hypnotic frenzy of the crowd.

“Why they should be masked?” said Vera to Francis. “If Carrousel's purpose is to show the citizens their friends' renewal, shouldn't they be recognizable?”

He shot her a warning look, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “There's a reason for everything in the City, Vera. Don't question it. It's perfect.”

“One for one,” finished Logan .

As the anonymous figures began their floating ascents to the heights of the auditorium, Francis, too, began to shout, “Up!” and “Renew!”

Vera looked from one man to the other on either side of her. Logan was jabbing his fist into the air, as he roared the Lastday Carrousel chant of “Renew!” The entire audience was on its feet, now, shouting as one after another Lastdayer reached the top of the conic field and disintegrated in a display of yellow-white sparks. The final one so destroyed, the audience emitted a deafening cheer. Then, the spectacle ended, they quieted and began to leave. Carrousel was over...until tomorrow.

Francis took Vera's hand. “Come, we've an appointment. See you tomorrow, Logan,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

Logan winked in reply. “Have fun, you two.”

Once they were in the mazecar, Vera said nothing, and her silence bothered Francis. He'd expected to hear something, angry or otherwise, about what he'd said to her in Carrousel, so he decided to make the first move. “You're mad at me, aren't you?”

“No.”

“Then why the silent treatment?”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing important.”

Francis slouched and folded his arms. “Women!”

Shortly after, the car slid to a stop and Francis got out, offering his hand to Vera. For a brief second their eyes met, and she smiled. Throwing back his head, Francis broke into laughter and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her onto the walkway. But, as they made their way to Regeneration, their arms about each other, he could see Vera growing anxious.

“I suppose they use the _in vitro_ method here,” she said.

“Mm, best way, considering.” 

“Will you stay with me, while they do it?”

“If they'll let me, and I’ve enough clout to make them.”

“I'm worried, Francis,” she confided. “As you know, I'm a physician in my own continuum. I know what procedure I'd use but have no idea what they will. That's what frightens me.”

A sign on an archway ahead proclaimed, REGENERATION COMPLEX. Below this two smaller signs indicated INCUBATION and NURSERY to the left and REGEN to the right. Their path led to the right.

“Francis,” Vera said again, “what if they realize I'm an alien?”

“They'd report it to me or Thinker. Thinker, though, has already integrated you,” he added, “so it won't make any difference.” He smiled. “Besides, I could tell them you're a mutant.” He stopped in front of a chrome door. “Well, we're here.” Once the pressure plate was touched, the door slid easily open revealing a slender, dark-haired male Green, sitting at a chrome desk, who looked up when they approached.

“We've been expecting you,” the young man said with a cheery smile. “You can take the door to the right, Francis, and the female goes to the left.”

Francis looked at Vera and hesitated. “The female wishes me there her during her procedure.”

“Your request is highly irregular, Francis Seven. I'll have to clear it.”

Francis nodded.

The Green left the room and returned a short time later. “Computer’s given clearance. We'll take you first and, in the meantime, prepare the female. Once they're through with you, you can join her.”

It seemed an eternity to Vera before Francis walked through the door. She was mostly dressed, except for a silvery, metallic cloth draping her lower body, exposing a small section of skin in front of her left hipbone.

Coming to her side, Francis took both her hands in his. “How's it going?”

“Fine. Local anesthesia.”

“Listen,” he said, “I've talked to a lot of girls who've had this done—only they didn't know it and I did. You see, that's another part of a Sandman's duty. The women are drugged and brought here, then returned to their quads. Anyway, none of them ever experienced any pain, afterwards.”

“I hope you’re right, although pain holds no fear for me. How do the men donate? Are they drugged, too?”

“All but the Sandmen, and then even some of them. If they have a strong belief in Renewal, then they're drugged. After all, it wouldn't do to let out they're only renewed through their own offspring.”

“Computer said there was already a Francis Eight. Have you ever seen him?”

This Francis shook his head. “Never. Didn't seem important. Besides,” he said with a subdued whisper, "he's not--"

Before Francis could finish the sentence, the door opened, and two, silver-clothed figures entered and began the surgery without so much as a greeting. Several times, the head surgeon looked up from his work and glanced at his assistant, and each time he did, Francis frowned in apprehension. Finally, the surgeon sealed the incision, passed a small pinpoint of light over the skin and left.

Alone with Vera, Francis squeezed her hand. “I'll be back in a minute. On second thought, go ahead and finish dressing then meet me in the lobby.” And he departed.

Catching up with the surgeon, he grabbed the man's arm. “All right, what's the matter with her?”

The man, about a Red-Two, looked curiously at Francis' stern features. “Being a mutant, her anatomy is a bit different, is all. Shouldn't present any difficulties, if that's what worries you. Computer briefed us the incubation media would need altering. We're perfectly prepared, Francis Seven. She'll renew.”

When Francis reached the lobby, Vera was waiting. Again, he took her hand and led her out of the place.

Once outside, she remarked, “They suspected, didn't they?”

“They already knew. Computer, as ordered by Thinker, really did brief them, so must have taken biological samples from you during Retrogram. I wondered why you were so weak afterwards.” Glancing at the chronometer on his Follower, he said, “Well, we're off duty now. Better get back to the quad and get some sleep.” He sighed. “Next week we start night duty.”

“We?”

Francis flashed his devastating smile. “Didn't I tell you? I'm your trainer, as such. You have to go out with me for three months before they'll let you patrol on your own.”

“But, within three months, I'll also have to report on the existence of Sanctuary.”

“No problem. There'll be quite a few Runners who should nearly make it next month. Aquarians are very clever. We should be assigned at least one Runner who'll take us away from City for several days. I'll give you the proof you need. Don't worry.”

Francis at least could erase that worrisome task from this intriguing woman's mind, but couldn't erase the worry from his, consisting of whether she would then return to her own time, her own continuum, her own life, or remain here with him.

**CHAPTER FOUR: Complications**

Late that night Vera was awakened by a blinking red light, and once fully awake, realized it was her own life-clock blinking red-black-red-black.

“Francis,” she said quite calmly, shaking him awake.

“What—what is it?”

“My life-clock. Look!”

He took her hand and stared. “Get dressed—we have to go to HQ right away.

On the way to Headquarters, Francis cautioned Vera, once again. “Now, whatever you do, act normally. The monitor won’t have picked you up yet on the main Runner scan. That takes thirty minutes after the blinking starts.” He sighed, leaning forward in the mazecar. “Let’s just hope we’re in time.”

Once inside the building housing all Deep Sleep operations, they walked, arms affectionately about each other, up to the black bank of Control Center Sandmen and waved a cheery hello.

“What are you two doing here, at this hour?” one of the men asked.

“Computer summons. Who knows what it wants,” said Francis with a grin.

“Good luck,” the same man said, waving before he turned back to his console.

“Sure thing,” Francis answered.

As the door closed behind them in Computer Center, Francis quickly approached the screen. “Computer!”

“IDENTIFY,” it purred.

“Francis Seven.”

“STATE YOUR PURPOSE, FRANCIS SEVEN.”

“Correction of Computer error.”

Its sultry voice became uneasy. “ERROR—WHAT ERROR?”

“I specifically designated Vera Three as Red-Three, Indefinite,” he said, distinctly, “but her lifeclock has begun blinking.”

“IF I AM IN ERROR, THEN I WILL CORRECT,” it answered, voice normal again.

“Here,” said Francis, taking Vera’s left hand, “put your palm on the cone as before.”

When the bell glass light dimmed and then brightened, she removed her hand and once more the life crystal glowed bright red.

“Computer,” he began again, “you will see this error is not made again, will you not?”

“AFFIRMATIVE, FRANCIS SEVEN.”

“You’d better,” Francis muttered.

“YOU ARE DISMISSED, FRANCIS SEVEN, VERA THREE.”

He sighed but was still obviously angry.

“What power do you have over that computer?” Vera asked, searching his face and the large, magnetic eyes shadowed by the semi-darkness.

He looked at her quite seriously, his eyes cool fire. “I programmed it.”

As the days passed uneventfully, Vera learned to know the Domed City. She learned of the dangers of Cathedral and the secret door which led to Under-City by way of the Love Shop. Francis, likewise, schooled her to know those who would help Runners and those who would not, by withdrawing their identification cards from the computer file and having her memorize each face, each quad number, and each quirk of their natures. And, as Vera had once told Logan, she was a quick learner. There were still those who gave Vera and Francis a wide berth on their patrols, perhaps because they were Sandmen, perhaps because Vera, as a woman, threatened the citizens more. For, they would have reasoned, if a woman could become a Sandman, she must be very dangerous, indeed.

**CHAPTER FIVE: Day Six**

The computer had just announced to all Citizens, the time was Eighteenth Hour, Aquarius-Three. But this particular day was different. Vera was feeling very feminine, even stopping to look at the artificial flowers, lifelike in their beds as they dotted the Plaza. There were other distractions too. Several small children, Yellows, newly released from their studies, ran and played over the entire length of the mall. But Vera, as she turned to watch one group and then another, only caused Francis to grow increasingly impatient.

“Vera!” he pleaded for the fifth time.

“I’m coming. Don’t worry.” Except, just as she started to join the operative, a small black and yellow whirlwind spun her about, being caught by her lightening reflexes.

“Here now, little Sandman, where are you going in such a hurry?”

The small boy pulled from her grasp, dusting her touch from his black tunic. “Can’t you see I’m chasing a Runner?”

“A Runner?” Vera studied the boy’s green eyes and long lashes and the curly, short brown hair which covered his head. “Did you know there are many duties for Sandmen,” she continued, “not just the termination of Runners?”

Suddenly, she had the boy’s attention. “No, I didn’t.”

“Well, there are. Would you believe they help lost children?”

“They do?” the boy remarked, seeming oddly suspicious for his lack of years.

Vera smiled, nodding. “Oh, yes. If you’re lost, all you have to do is tell them your name--"

“My name is Francis Eight,” he said proudly, puffing out his small chest and crossing his arms. “Francis Seven is the greatest Sandman ever.”

“I dare say,” Vera replied a bit wisely. “Then, all you have to do is tell a Sandman you’re Francis Eight, and he’ll see, by your clothes, you’ll be a Sandman, too, and will help you.”

“Vera!” Francis Seven yelled again, starting toward her.

“I have to go now, Francis Eight, but remember, Sandmen have a gentle side, too.” She left the boy and hurried toward the older Sandman.

“A small Sandman,” he said, as she neared.

“Yes; he’ll be one to deal with when he gets older.”

“They all are.” Francis took her hand, and they walked slowly down the mall.

After they’d ridden the escalator to the second level, Vera’s hand slipped out of Francis’ and she leaned against the balcony and over the wall, looking down to the small, half-black clad figure below. Then, instinctively, she felt Francis behind her.

“On the way back to our unit,” she asked without turning, “could we go by the Incubation Room?”

His hand caressed her shoulder gently, and his voice soft answered, “I think so.”

With a last, backward glance, she left the wall and walked again along the now familiar patrol route. She was fully aware, of course, that her mind wasn’t on the job, and knew her eyes didn’t search for that single, frightened face, which betrayed a Runner in the crowds. She couldn’t. The child had disrupted her objectivity. And now, her gaze drifted to the man beside her—the long lashed, large piercing eyes, the very dark blond, almost brown hair which curled lazily about his face. His hand raised and pushed some of the hair away from his left ear, and then he turned and smiled, one Vera returned as his arm went about her shoulder, drawing her closer—but only for a moment. For, too soon, his touch had left her, and they once more walked side by side, slowly, unhurriedly, their hands a breath apart, until a sudden beeping at the man’s side brought his hand to his belt.

“Francis Seven,” he said, automatically speaking the second the communication devise was near his mouth.

“Runners. Two. Spotted in Arcade. Male and female. Male identified as Cameron Six, Female as Melissa Five. He went Lastday seventeen-forty. She’s still Red, born Twenty-two-forty-seven.”

“Let’s see their ‘graphs.”

The image of a blond man flashed on Francis’ Follower and then that of a brown-haired woman. “Got it. What about backups?”

“Jonathan Three and Tremayne Four.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Mazecar?” Vera asked.

“Not this time of day. Lots of DS coming and going off duty. We’d have to wait too long. It’ll be quicker on foot.”

Fortunately, the door to the building’s exterior was on their level, so it was only a short run and time before they were outside and running toward Arcade. As they burst through the automatic doors of the large complex, people scattered then closed behind them, as they raced on. Once at Arcade, itself, the two agents slowed and began their initial, visual search. Francis turned on his scanner and passed it in front of the brightly garbed crowd.

“Smart! He’ll get lost easily in this mob, but the woman’ll slow him down. He would’ve stood a better chance alone.” His hand stopped its scanning traverse when he said, “I don’t believe it! They’re behind the Hand. Just standing there!”

“Perhaps,” Vera said, “they think if they cannot be seen, their chances increase.”

Francis ignored the way her words had been formed. It wouldn’t be appropriate to reprimand her for talking like an alien here. Instead, he answered with, “I don’t think so.” The Follower replaced, he took his Flamegun from the same belt. “Slowly now. You take the right side of the mall, and I’ll take the left. Work your way around to the back of the Hand, but don't let them see you, til the last.”

Vera nodded and started off, detaching her own weapon.

Moving slowly through the milling throng of brilliant colors, the only evidence of their passing were small, hushed pools of vacancy in their wakes and advances. A quick glance across the mall, assured Francis that Vera was staying his pace, her face immobile, making him smile to himself. Once more, her mind was on the job at hand.

The glass Hand revolved only a few meters farther, and Francis circled wider, scanning each face which belonged to a Red for those of Melissa and Cameron. He was past the Hand, now, his scanner palmed again, but there were no Reds behind it. Vera came nearer, her face also bearing puzzlement. Francis’ scanner showed no Runners anywhere near.

Pushing her way to Francis’ side through the press of curious people, Vera asked, “What happened? Where could they have gone?”

He shook his head. “Not sure.” Slowly, he turned three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, all the while watching the Follower’s readout screen.

“Should we send for backup?” Vera asked, still visually scanning the crowd.

“Not yet.” The Follower pointed at the entrance to Carrousel, Francis punched a button on the side of the black devise with his thumb. “Headquarters, how many due for Carrousel tonight, excluding all known Runners?”

“Fifteen, Francis Seven.”

“Acknowledged.”

“What was that about?” Vera said next.

“Look at the screen.”

Her eyes examined the small radial graph built into the bottom of the Follower. In one cluster, toward the edge of the graph, were some dozen glowing dots. “So?”

“That’s Carrousel.”

“So?”

“I’ve got a hunch. Come on.”

After they hurried toward the large, red life-clock which marked Carrousel’s entrance, Francis made another scan inside. All the dots remained in a single cluster. He pointed to a door on the left, and Vera’s hand touched the pressure plate.

A group of Lastdayers, already arraigned in their flameout suits of red and white, startled, as Francis went toward them, leaving Vera to guard the entrance, while he carefully examined the blackened faces, one by one. But, with the last, he turned and started back, obviously angry.

“I could’ve sworn we’d find them here.” But he could see Vera had her own Follower out, compassing the room.

“Francis, look at this,” she said, and he came to her side.

As he studied the graph, he could see a cluster of glowing dots massed at the center, those here, but another, single dot, stood apart. “But where,” he asked. “That’s only two, three meters at the most...over that way,” he said pointing to the back of the room. “There’s no door, no--” He stopped short. “No visible door!”

Pulling out his own Follower, he said into it, “Headquarters get someone from Arcade Patrol to Carrousel Preparation Room One, on the double!” Now he briefly turned to Vera. “Keep on that scan.”

Just then two Sandmen burst through the opening door, Flameguns drawn, and Francis whispered, “Get these citizens out of here for fifteen minutes. I’m tracking a Runner.”

One of the men acknowledged the order with a wave of his own Gun then, with his silent partner, herded out the Lastdayers.

Quietly, Francis asked of Vera, “Scan?”

“Still fixed.”

“All right.” He walked softly around the room, large, competent hands gliding over the slick, seamless white walls. His tongue flicked out and licked his dry lips.

“Francis,” Vera said softly, “could the opening be in the floor or ceiling, instead of the wall?” The scanner gives no depth readings.”

He flashed her a grin and whispered, “You’re brilliant!”

Now, as his hands and eyes searched the low, prismed ceiling, he reversed direction to analyze the floor composed of tile upon tile of large shiny mirrors.

“Scan moving,” Vera whispered.

“It’s no use. I can’t find the opening. I’ll bet those Lastdayers know, though you’d never get them to tell. What would they have to lose by keeping silent?” His hands rested on his hips as he still looked at the gleaming tiles. “Where’s the scan?”

“Moving rapidly northeast.”

He held out his hand toward her. “Let me see that thing.” His eyes closed in concentration. “That would be... Right! We can get there before them and probably head them off.”

“Maybe we should let them go, Francis,” Vera said, grabbing his arm to prevent his leaving. “The man’s obviously intelligent, if he’s evaded us this far. Isn’t he entitled to find Sanctuary?”

Francis’ face grew hard. “We have to make the effort, Vera. If we don’t, the game’s over. Don’t you see?”

Running through Carrousel and back into Arcade, the Computer intoned, “CAPRICORN-THIRTEENS, YEAR OF THE CITY TWENTY-TWO-SEVENTY-FOUR, BORN TWENTY-TWO-FORTY-FOUR. CARROUSEL BEGINS.”

The sudden, noisome press of bodies hindered the Sandmen’s progress, but the black of their uniforms quickly left an opening. In less than five minutes they'd reached Hallucimill, naturally vacant at this time. Everything closed when Carrousel began.

“There’s an entrance to Under-City behind the drug processor, “Francis told his partner.

“I thought the only entrance to Under-City existed through Love Shop.”

“Very few know of this entrance. In fact, only the two of us..., I hope.”

They made their way quickly to the rear of the shop and the mechanical processor rigged for manufacturing all forms of drug hallucinogens: solid, gas, or liquid, where Francis pressed his hand to the decorative plaque on the wall behind the machine, causing the hidden door to creak outward. A flight of stairs now revealed, leading downward into silent, foreboding darkness, he instructed, “Feel your way down. It gets lighter about fifty meters farther.

The Sandlady nodded and started rapidly down the staircase, the only sound that of Francis’ feet behind her. Once into the darkness, she felt for the handrail. The metal was cold and wet with condensation—almost slippery. But the steps remained evenly spaced, as before, so her rate of descent stayed the same. Behind her, Francis kept up her pace. Then the stairs curved to the right, then dizzyingly downward, steeper than before, making her progress slower. Vera’s sensitive ears picked up the sound of water, her nose advising her it was salt water. The scent grew stronger, but still there was darkness and the only sound that of Francis' footsteps behind her.

Finally, the gray far-off walls became more visible, and yet there seemed to be no ceiling. The scent of salt air gone, it had been replaced by a new smell. At first Vera couldn’t place the strident odor it, until she remembered as gigantic, clear-walled vats surrounded her, revealing all manner of animals once plentiful on Earth. She knew they must have been preserved here, under the City, for some future generation to study and marvel at. Elephants, crocodiles, huge grizzly bears, and elk—each suspended in a separate vat of formaldehyde. But the huge, almost shrine-like vat before her caused Vera to stop and stare with pity. For, within, was a creature she’d always admired above all others on this planet—one as unique as Man himself.

Francis came up behind her, and she asked, “Why the dolphin?”

“The seas became radioactive after the Little War. Nothing could survive, least of all the dolphins. Even though Man tried to save them, the animals couldn’t live for more than a few decades in the artificial salt water. That’s what you smelled before, the marine tanks. There’s still a few species of fish we raise but not many.”

“Did Man of this Earth ever learn the dolphins’ language?”

“Not really. He never really tried, and now it’s too late.”

Vera experienced a momentary pang of despair within her. “It seems a crime to preserve such an intelligent creature,” she said mournfully, “nearly tantamount to preserving a Twentieth Century Man.”

Francis placed his hand on her shoulder in sympathy and turned her away from the vat. “We best keep going.”

She nodded in reply and left, but turned back to look at the still, gray form in the plasticene vat, a smile perpetually engraved on its intelligent face. As she walked away, a tear rolled down her cheek, unseen in the darkness. “Man will always destroy what is beautiful,” she remarked. “It is inherent in his nature.”

This time Francis didn’t condemn her for “talking like a damn alien.” How could he condemn what he knew to be too true?

They continued their way through Under-City, Francis purposely avoiding those areas gained by long dark corridors off the main room. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, not hesitating a moment to get his bearings. Then a mazecar shone in the subdued light, cobwebs decorating the outside, obviously not been used in quite some time. Here, Francis stopped and faced the corridor to his right, his ears straining to pick up the faint sound of distant footsteps. Vera heard them, too, but more distinctly.

“Two people, about thirty meters away, coming in this direction,” she said.

Nodding, he motioned her behind a wall opposite the corridor, then, taking his Gun, leaned against the wall to check the weapon’s charge, while Vera edged toward the end of the wall and listened again.

“Twenty meters. They’re running now. Must have seen the mazecar.”

Francis nodded again. “Better check your weapon. I might miss.”

But, as her hand touched the Flamegun on her belt, Vera’s eyes became unnaturally blank.

“They took a side corridor before reaching the mazecar.”

“That means they’re going Outside.”

"What about our backups?”

“I forgot. Better take care of that before we go any farther.” His hand brought the Follower to his lips. “Francis Seven to Headquarters,” he whispered, “Cancel backups.”

“Clarify, Francis Seven.”

“Runners in sight. Termination imminent.”

“Acknowledged. Backups cancelled.”

“All right, that’s done,” he said replacing the Follower. “Now get in the 'car.”

Vera stepped in and dusted off the seats with her hand before sitting down. Francis was at the power box and jumped into the car beside her, saying, “Code Red, Black Three. Destination: Victoria Station.”

On a digital board in front of them, marked “ARRIVAL”, there appeared “45MN.”

The mazecar slid slowly forward, it’s door sliding forward to close, and the transport picked up speed and soon flashed along Under-City’s shiny tube walls.

**CHAPTER SIX: Outside**

From the time they left Under-City until the mazecar slowed to a stop at Victoria Station, Francis was silent. And, for the first time since they’d met, Vera felt she shouldn’t intrude upon his thoughts—either mentally or verbally. When the transport stopped and Francis led her up the steps from the mazecar tunnel, Vera was hardly prepared for what she saw. For, at the top of the stairs her senses were met by filtered sunlight and the smell of wet grass.

“You’re about to see the only place in the hemisphere where real grass and trees still exist in unmutated forms,” he said, pushing aside the shrubs which hid the entrance to the tunnel.

“Oh, Francis, it’s breath-taking! Just like the Earth I knew. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten what it was like. But I thought this was early winter and the vegetation would be brown or bare.”

"Not with the temperatures higher than normal."

His hand pointed off to a place behind a bank of trees. “There’s a house over there, where we’ll spend the night.”

“Does anyone live there?”

“You should know better, by now, than to even think of asking a question like that. I built it the first time I left the City.”

As they started toward the trees, she asked, “You think the Runners, Melissa and Cameron will come this way?”

“I’m sure of it. But they can’t possibly get here until tomorrow morning. That should give us plenty of time to prepare.”

“Francis,” she said, eyes showing confusion, “why did you cancel our backup?”

He turned to her and smiled. “You wanted to see Sanctuary for yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but...”

“No ‘buts.’ I want to show you. I want to show you everything.”

They were into the trees, now, and then a small clearing. “So, where’s the house?” she asked.

He half-laughed. “Right in front of you, Sandlady.”

“I see nothing.”

“Walk straight ahead.”

She did but only for a few steps before bumping into very solid reality. “It’s invisible!”

He nodded. “The door’s to your right; feel for it.”

Her pale slim hands moved over the emptiness and felt a crack, then followed the invisible seam to an equally invisible pressure plate. When she pushed there, an opening appeared, showing the interior of a domed house. She walked inside and looked about the place, Francis behind her, but when the door swooshed closed behind her, she turned, startled.

Oddly, Francis no longer seemed amused and became very serious. “Vera, sit down, will you?”

She did, as told, and looked at him, questioningly.

“Vera,” he said repeating her name and walking nervously toward her, “you’ve guessed a lot of the truth about me...or maybe it wasn’t guessing and have admitted we...that we feel something for each other. I wonder, though, if you’d feel the same if I told you...showed you, what is really me.”

“Why not simply show me and cease your wondering?”

“You understand, I can’t regain my appearance until we’re ready to return to the City.”

“That’s only logical, since you plan to help those Runners and wouldn’t want them to recognize you as a Sandman.”

“How did you know I planned to help them?” She only looked at him in exasperation. “Oh, that again. I still can’t get used to your reading people’s minds. What would you say, though, if I told you my true name isn’t Francis Seven?”

“I would say, that, too, is only logical. Another name for another face.” She smiled reassuringly. “What is your real name?”

“Ballard Two.”

She nodded. “Now, when are you going to show me your true face?”

“I have to change clothes, so will go and do the whole thing at once. By the way, you need to wear something else, too. Look in the box over there. Should be some processor cards for more acceptable clothing. I keep a pretty good selection and supply for the Runners, since they can usually use a change by the time they get this far.” Then he disappeared through another door.

When the door opened again, Vera awaited him in her new blue jumpsuit.

“You’re ready? You’re sure?” he said from the other room.”

“Quite sure.” She tried to adjust herself slowly, starting her gaze at his feet and saving the face for last. He wore a gray, tailored jumpsuit, no belt. The physique was that of Francis. The hands were those of Francis. But the face! She stifled a reflexive gasp. The chin was strong, the jaw still broad, but the mouth was thin, the nose angled as if it had been chiseled from solid rock. Francis’ bone structure remained under the skin but only if one knew it well. The hair seemed the same color but was somehow different. Then she realized it was straight instead of slightly curled. At last, she allowed herself to look at his eyes. They were the same, yet brown in color. She sighed with slight relief then looked at the face as a whole. It was still a handsome face, a kind, gentle face, in spite of its physical appearance.

Ballard was growing restless. “Well?”

She rose and went to him. “This man has two faces. It matters little to me which he chooses. Both reflect the man he is.”

He took her into his arms, and she felt the same as when Francis held her—that funny, delightful ache in the pit of her stomach. Nevertheless, she couldn’t respond to Ballard’s embrace, because, despite what she said, it did matter.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She buried her face in the chest which was still Francis’, afraid to look at the stranger above it. The chest, the arms, the voice were still familiar, the rest was not.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I’m not as adaptable as I thought. In time, I’ll adjust.”

“I’ve been too hard on you,” he said. “I should have prepared you for this.”

“It’s just...it’s like seeing someone you know for the first time in years, decades. There’s a familiarity, but they’re still a stranger.”

“Yes, I understand,” Ballard said. “I feel the same every time I become Ballard. In my mind, I’ve become Francis. Day after day, for months, I see Francis reflected back to me in mirrors or reflected in building glass as I pass, and Ballard has become the stranger .” He held her closer. “Listen, there’s no real reason to expose my true face until the Runners get here. I think we’d both feel better if I became Francis meanwhile.”

“That’s fine with me, but please hurry back. I feel vulnerable in this place alone." 

At this last remark, Francis looked puzzled but seemed to dismiss the idea and entered the other room.

**CHAPTER SEVEN: Day Seven**

The next morning, they awoke early.

“If I’m not mistaken, the Runners should be here within an hour” said Francis from the other room, coming out once again as Ballard. “I wish you could come with me, but you’d be too easily recognizable, even out of uniform. So, you’ll wait in the mazecar tunnel.”

“The tunnel. Why?”

“We’ll be leaving as soon as I give their instructions. Be sure and take the processor cards for our uniforms with you, so we can change before returning to the City. You’d better take my Flamegun and belt with you, too, and my other face. I’ll—"

A beeping from the wall interrupted him. When he pressed the button, a console, built into one of the transparent cubes used for a table, appeared, revealing a large, circular, lined scanner graph, like the one on their Followers. It showed two glowing red dots moving steadily toward the center of the graph.

“You’d better head for the tunnel, now, before they get close enough to see you. My gun belt and yours are in the other room.”

Vera disappeared into the one mentioned and reappeared with his belt in her hand, her own attached about her slender waist. His “face” was in a plastic bag, hanging from it. “How long before you join me?”

Ballard turned from the screen. “Not long—about thirty minutes.”

With a nod, she disappeared through the opening entrance door, and once outside, moved quickly through the trees to the green meadow of grass. Across the meadow lay the patch of brush which hid the mazecar tunnel. She glanced briefly toward the north—the direction from where the Runners would come. There was a small hill with a few lonely trees at its top, but no sign of human forms. After racing across the meadow, she reached the brush and stopped. Another glance toward the hill showed the Runners still not arrived. Then, moving the bushes apart, she descended into the dark tunnel before turning to peer through the leafy branches at the still meadow. Within five minutes, a man and a woman in tattered red tunics, stained with sweat and dirt, came into view. Mere meters from where she watched, they dropped to the still dew damp grass, panting to fill their depleted lungs with precious air. They’d obviously come quite far, wasting no time in their flight from the City.

“I can’t go any farther, Cam,” the woman was saying, her face contorted with fatigue.

“We’ll rest here a while, then, but we’ve got to keep going. The Sandmen’ll be close behind.”

Melissa fell back onto the cool grass. “I’d never dreamed a place like this could exist.”

“And Sanctuary will be even more beautiful,” he promised his pair-up.

“Oh, Cam,” she sighed, looking up at the blond man with tired eyes, “if we haven’t found it by now, do you really think it exists?”

As if on cue, Ballard came from the trees, a beneficent figure in gray.

The red-clad man squinted. “Who the...?”

When the woman sat up and started to run, Ballard’s hand came up. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve been expecting you and want to help. See, I’ve brought you fresh clothing.” He held out a gold and blue jumpsuit toward them. “I’m the only one who can help you find Sanctuary.”

The couple turned to each other, a single question written on both their faces: could this man possibly be the one who could tell them the truth they sought, or did he, too, lie?

Cameron faced the stranger, his eyes narrowed, his pointed finger accusingly. “There were others who said they wanted to help us, too, but tried to kill us...hurt us, instead. How can we trust you?”

“Do you see any weapon on me?”

“No, but...”

“Take the clothes, then. Yours are no longer of any use,” said Ballard , as he tossed the jumpsuits at their feet. “You see my palm,," he said holding out his palm and exposing his brilliant red lifeclock. "Now look closely at my face.”

“There are lines—cracks!” Melissa said, astonished.

“I passed the age of thirty, fifteen years ago.”

“But how?” asked Cameron .

“An imperfect crystal—one which enabled me to escape death and the City. It is I who built Sanctuary and supplies the ankhs for those I consider worthy of finding it.”

“Then why aren’t you there, instead of here?” asked Cameron.

“Who would help Runners like you, if no one left Sanctuary?” He pointed to the brush where Vera still watched. “There’s a mazecar tunnel under those bushes. I’ll go before you, and another ‘car will come within five minutes after I leave. You will request destination Cape Steinbeck. There, I shall set you on the final leg to Sanctuary.” The other man was speechless. “I see you still have your doubts. Surely five minutes of your time can be spared. If not...” At that, he came toward the brush and Vera raced quietly down the last steps to the waiting mazecar.

When Ballard parted the bushes and began his descent, Vera already waited in the transport. He got in, punched a button, and the doors slid closed. “Cape Steinbeck,” he said, and the car picked up speed. The arrival time showed, 4 HRS. 10MN. “Give me the face,” he said when they were underway. Vera handed over the plasticene bag, and he took out the synthaskin, pressing it into place over his own facial skin. Once he was satisfied, he leaned back and sighed.

“Francis, do you think they’ll follow?”

Looking straight ahead, he smiled broadly. “Figured you’d listen. I swear, I’ve never known anyone as curious as you. Yeah, they’ll follow. They’re curious, too. They’ll at least wait around long enough to see if that other mazecar shows up.” His arm came around Vera, pushing her head against his shoulder. “You’d better get some sleep. This is going to be a long day.”

Vera had only dozed a few hours before she awakened with a start. “Francis? Francis!”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. She clung to him like a frightened child. “Something terrible’s going to happen.”

“You just had a bad dream, that’s all.” Her gray eyes focused on his blue-green ones. “You don’t understand. All my dreams come true. Always!”

“A dream is a dream, Vera. What they contain seldom bears any resemblance to reality.”

“Mine do.”

“All right, let’s talk about it, then. Now, calm down and tell me.”

She breathed deeply and began. “Both my legs were broken. Some broken ribs had punctured one of my lungs, collapsing it. I was dying, Francis.”

“Go on.”

“You were there, too, both of us in uniform. There was metal...dull gray metal walls all around us. One of my legs was bleeding badly, and you tore the gray band from your uniform to use as a tourniquet and started to cry.”

He held her closer. “It’s just a dream, Sandlady, just a bad dream."

“But it’s going to happen, Francis. I’m going to die...before we ever get back to the City. I’m going to die!”

His arms closed more tightly about her. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Sandlady. I won’t let it.” But his words sounded hollow, even to him.

Soon, she slept again. He didn’t know sleep was the Meldanan way of healing an injured mind.

Francis thought Vera had lost her fears, and when she awoke, it did seem as if they’d fled, along with her dream. The mazecar slid to a stop. Outside the tunnel was a sight Vera had only seen in history archives: tall metal gantries mated to three gigantic spacecraft—the kind designed for mass migration to the outer planets during the First Star War when Earth’s very existence had been threatened by the barbaric inhabitants of the Zarameathian Galaxy. In addition to these three ships, a dozen or so smaller spacecraft, large enough for perhaps three people at the most, rested a hundred meters distance from the greater ones.

Francis carefully peeled off the synthaskin and handed it back to Vera, then indicated a small square shed to her right, holding a ship. “Wait there.”

“Just where is Sanctuary, Francis?”

His now brown eyes met hers, a stranger’s but familiar. “Dark side of the Moon. There’s a small colony there, but most go on to Argos near Mars. We have to save time, so I’ll show you the one on Luna.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“On Argos? Once, long ago, but couldn’t live with myself, knowing others were dying needlessly, so I came back.” 

"You didn’t come back in one of those,” Vera remarked, gesturing to the small spacecraft.

“No, not one of those. Vera, they’ll be here any moment!”

“All right, I’m going.”

Vera couldn’t see what happened once the Runners came, but a few minutes before Francis joined her, she heard the roaring takeoff of one of the small crafts.

“And now?” she asked when he entered the shed.

“And now, us.” He pressed a pressure plate in the shed wall and another door opened, leading to a much higher building. Inside was another spacecraft—another from the history records—predating the others. “It’s a shuttle!” Vera exclaimed, running her fingers lovingly over the large craft's glossy white surface.

“Does it still fly?”

“Like the wind!”

The shuttle fueled, her passengers aboard and her path to space clear, the marvel of the Twentieth Century rose gently into the blue sky and attained the darkness beyond the Earth’s atmosphere. Within hours, the ball of the Moon’s substance grew ever nearer and become solid dust beneath them. Upon the shuttle's coming to a stop, a pressurized, accordion-like passageway emerged from the dust and attached itself to the side, thus leading their way to the underground New City.

_So, this is Sanctuary,_ thought Vera as they entered the passage and made their way to the city itself.

Crowds of people greeting them with shouts of “Ballard, Ballard!” she noted most of the citizens here appeared under fifty years of age, yet young and old strove to get near enough to steal a touch of Ballard’s clothing or skin, as if he were some kind of messiah. And for them, she realized, Ballard was their messiah, because he’d given them the one thing the Domed City never could—new life.

The underground New City was much like the domed one, from which they’d fled, yet different—more Spartan. There was a similar Arcade, but instead of a giant glowing red crystal lifeclock in its palm, this one’s shone clear. The people here were truly Renewed.

During their walk through the sites of New City, several children chased up and down the mall of Arcade, and Vera stopped one to look at his left hand. No crystal lifeclock marred this one’s hand, so he’d never know the agony of the Runner nor of Lastday.

The people smiled as Ballard walked among them with Vera, and he returned their smiles, although his contained a hint of sadness. When they were finally alone, he turned to Vera and said, “So, now you’ve seen Sanctuary, are you satisfied?”

“Yes, and I’ll report to the Committee as soon as we return to the City.” She looked again at the features of the man called Ballard. “You remember the young Sandman in the Plaza?”

“I do.”

“His name is Francis Eight.”

“Indeed.”

“You’re not his seed-father, are you?”

Ballard looked at Vera, seriously. “No, I’m not. That’s why seeing him was never important.” He took her hand. “It’s time we left.”

The shuttle departed the gray Moon and soon arrived over Cape Steinbeck. Then, suddenly, the consoles before the couple erupted in a shower of white sparks!

“The control panels have shorted out, and I’ve lost landing control!” Francis shouted above the crackling cacophony. “We’re going to crash!”

Vera’s face turned white. She stared frantically about at the walls—gray walls of metal imprisoning her. Next, a tremendous jolt—the sound of metal scraping rock, bolts ripping from their moorings, metal tearing...and bone breaking.

Then absolute silence.

**CHAPTER EIGHT: Sanctuary Revealed**

With Francis’ face just a blur above her, there was an odd smell of burned wiring in the air. “Vera!” she heard.

Voice weaker than a whisper, she said, “Francis?”

“Are you hurt?”

“I can’t feel my legs.”

The blurry face dissolved into a more foggy, smoke-filled room, and Vera heard heavy metal crashing beside her then a sense of pressure leaving her legs.

“You’re bleeding pretty badly,” Francis’ voice informed her. “I’ve got to stop it.” He looked around the shuttle in futility and finally tore the broad band of gray, quilted material from the chest of the Sandman uniform he’d donned on the return flight, tearing it lengthwise into narrow strips.

“Francis—,” she said, again, even weaker.

“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

“Francis, please!”

“Damn, if only we were closer to the City.”

“No one there could help. I need a blood transfusion. They couldn’t possibly have the right kind on hand.”

The man’s fingers played nervously over Vera’s blood-smeared cheek, brushing away something there. “You’ll be all right. I promise.”

“Francis, I’m going to die. There’s nothing you can do to save me. It was all in the dream.”

“I don’t believe in dreams!” Tears began to well in the Sandman’s eyes. “You’re not going to die, damn it. You’re not! There’s got to be a way!”

Now he tried to smile. “Besides, Logan’s going Lastday in a week, and we’ve got to have a party for him. No Sandman goes on Carrousel without having a party.”

He wiped a hand across his eyes. “That communication devise of yours, did you bring it?”

“In my...pouch,” she managed, barely moving her lips.

He searched inside the vinyl case and found it, then said, “I’ll get some help.”

She couldn't see him smiling with reassurance, because her eyes had involuntarily closed, but she could vaguely feel his fingers pressed against her throat trying to detect her pulse.

“What’s the name of her ship?” she heard, imagining him digging his fist into his forehead, trying to pry the information from his memory. The next sound was the click of a button receded into the black metal being pressed. “ _Cresas_ , this is Francis Seven.”

An oddly accented voice answered, “ _Cresas_. We copy, Francis Seven. Where is the woman you call Vera? Her life function monitor shows distress.”

“She’s severely injured. Do you have someone who can help her?

“Affirmative, Francis Seven. We shall send help immediately. _Cresas,_ out.”

Moments later two glowing forms materialized amid the smoke. One was very tall, muscular, and sandy blond, the other over medium height with snow-white hair. The skin of his face tinged a dark blue, it was he who quickly sat at Vera’s side, muttering, passing a small, whirring tube over her body, and then pressing a narrow tube against her arm.

All this time, the blond man said nothing, instead watching Francis with what seemed to him, an inordinate amount of curiosity. Finally, he addressed the other who’d come with him. “Doctor?”

“She’s pretty bad, Tregar. We’ll have to get her aboard soon.”

Now Vera moaned, turning the three men’s attention to her.

As they grew clearer in her sight, she recognized their faces and called the newcomers by name. “Doctor Melanthius? Tregar! What--?” 

The older one interrupted her. “You’re going back to the ship, madam. Your mission here is over.”

“But I saw it, Tregar," she said, turning to the other man. "I saw Sanctuary.”

“Good. Then there’s no reason for you to stay any longer.”

She looked to Francis, her eyes growing moist.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of Vera Four. She’ll see Sanctuary, too. I promise.”

“Francis, I’ll come back. Someday. Honestly.”

“And I’ll be waiting, Sandlady.” He removed a chain from around his neck and pressed it into her pale hand. “Don’t wait too long, though. It’s going to be awfully boring without you to liven things up.

“Only as long as it takes to get things settled...so I can leave Meldana.”

“We must depart,” Tregar put in.

“Three to transport,” the tall one voiced to the smoky air.

And they were gone.

The long mazecar trip to Domed City was loneliness itself for Francis, but it gave him the time he needed alone, time to devise an excuse for Vera’s not returning with him. He’d only been in his living unit a few minutes before Logan arrived.

“Francis, damn, am I ever glad to see you.” The wiry, blond DS Operative surveyed his partner, noticing the torn and bloodied tunic, minus the gray swath of chest cloth. “Say, you must have had some chase!”

But, “Hi, Logan,” was the only reply he received and that, less than politely.

“So, where’s Vera?” asked Logan, cursorily searching the two rooms and coming back to the living area.

“Don’t know.” Francis hadn’t moved a centimeter from the chair where Logan had first seen him.

“You don’t know?” Logan was incredulous, hands on hips, face screwed in confusion.

“Got separated. Couldn’t find her.”

“You don’t think she can find her way back?”

“Who’s to say? Maybe she will.” Francis took another sip from the cup of steaming liquid he held in his hand. “Maybe she won’t.”

Logan studied the other Sandman’s emotionless face. “Is that all you can say?”

“If she’s dead, Logan, there’s a replacement for her. If she’s not...”

“A replacement?” Logan asked, now standing before the other.

“Sure, Vera Four. One for one, remember?”

“You mean...?” said Logan, jerking a thumb sideways.

“Yep! Want to see her?” Francis jumped out of his chair, putting the cup on the counter and starting for the door.

“She couldn’t even be born, yet,” Logan responded, following.

“Nope, just two weeks along. No bigger than a grain of sand.”

As the door closed behind them, Logan observed, “You’re crazy, Francis.”

**CHAPTER NINE**

Aboard the _Cresas_ , far out in the vast reaches of space, Vera rapidly regained her strength, as the doctor could see when studying her life functions monitor with a frown, but he now motioned her to sit up. “You’d better be back to normal soon.”

“I’ll never be normal, again.”

The blue-skinned man smiled and stood aside for the tall blond waiting nearby-tall and domineering...the vision of superiority.

“Getting more Adani all the time, huh?” this one said, taking her hand as the doctor entered her test results into her chart.

“Yes. You know, I sometimes wonder if I have not become an emotional cripple, yet at others...when...” She rubbed her temple, as if erasing a memory. “When will I be well enough to return, Dr. Mellanthius?”

“Return to Earth? A few weeks, I suppose, but you can’t go back."

"And there’s your report to the Committee," reminded Tregar.

“I’ve already recorded my report.”

“All your affairs on Meldana to settle...”

“L’Phaedra can succeed me now, as well as later. I’ve devoted over twenty years of my life to the development of Meldana. It can survive without me, while I live my own life.”

“And what about your son?”

“He's a man. He has no need for a meddling mother.”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t be talking like this is Tlasus were still alive.”

She stared, laughingly into Tregar's dark blue eyes. “I wouldn't have fallen in love with

another man, if Tlasus still lived.” She touched this man’s face gently. “You know I didn't plan for this mission to become so...complicated. Though not even I can plan for all contingencies. Can you?”

“This...Human,” he said, "is he so important, as we once surmised?"

“Yes, he is.” Her hand clutched the piece of metal at the end of the chain about her neck. 

“And does he love you?”

“I don't know.”

“How could you not know? Surely mind touch--”

“I do not know, because _he_ does not know. The only thing they associate with love there is sex and have no word for deep affection.”

“I see.” Now the Meldanan regarded his Matriarch calmly. “And what of your people?”

“You shall inform them I have died after completing the mission. Only L’Phaedra is to know the truth.”

Tregar took a step forward, brow creased. “I cannot let you do this, Vera.”

“I am doing it. I am responsible—no one else.”

He nodded in submissive affirmation. “And when will you return to Earth?”

“Reverse course now. Use the collapsar Cygnus X-One to allow me to arrive one week after I left.”

“Vera...”

She glanced in his direction. “Yes, Tregar?”

“I do understand.”

“You understand?” She turned on him, gray eyes darkening. “You have always hated me for having Tlasus’ devotion, hated me for uniting your race and mine, hated me for everything I have done and the way I have done it, and now you say you understand?”

He remained calm. “That is true. I did not understand then, but do now.”

“Then let me live my life the way I choose.” Again, she turned away.

But Tregar was not easily dismissed. “The neck ornament he gave you...what is it?”

Vera’s hand gently caressed the pendant then released it. “An ankh—symbol of eternal life and key to Sanctuary.”

**CHAPTER TEN: Day Fourteen**

A week after she’d left and traveling for hours through the mazetubes back into the City, Vera appeared in Francis’ living unit. Once more she wore her Sandman uniform, the tears from the crash unrepaired. She’d intended to change at the apartment, since a clean, perfect uniform upon her return from Outside would have aroused suspicion. She ached to see the expression on Francis’ face when he saw her again, so healthy and after so short a time. But he wasn’t there—hadn’t been for some time...several days, she guessed, by the lack of rumpled sheets on the bed, so she changed and took a mazecar to the only place she could think of which would know his whereabouts—Sandman Headquarters.

Approaching the first man dressed in DS black, Vera asked, “Jonathan, where’s Francis?”

“Outside, chasing a Runner,” he answered calmly, glancing up from his techtablet.

“Where Outside? You do have a fix on him.”

“Too far out. Last report did have him near Denver Station, though.”

She felt her brow furrow. “What kind of Runner could have led him that far?”

The DS man grinned, almost cruelly. “A Sandman Runner.”

“But who?”

“Logan Five.”

“Logan!”

“Yeah.” Jonathan smiled inwardly at the woman’s surprise.

Logan was one of the best, and it wouldn’t be any too soon before Francis returned...if he returned. Mentally trying to rationalize what he’d just told her, Vera could feel the man's eyes reappraising her, as she stood before him.

“Say,” he continued, licking his lips, “if you’re worried about a trainer, you can go out with me on patrol til Francis gets back.”

“No,” she said, beginning to leave. “I’m going after Francis.”

“But you only now arrived from Outside. How’d you even find your way back? Francis said the two of you got separated.”

“I got back the same way I’ll find Francis, Jonathan...intelligence.” She turned and ran down the remainder of the corridor and disappeared into the semi-darkness.

As for Jonathan, he continued his way to Computer Central, taking his place at the Runner Monitor then leaning back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, and remarking to no one in particular, “Sandlady’s back.” His evil smile spread, stretching his lips into a lustful sneer.

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: Day Seventeen**

It was a morning whose sun was a white blur in a gray sky, a morning whose air still chilled bare flesh, in spite of the tiny traces of bright green unfolding on twisted limbs of the scattered trees on an otherwise barren land. And, in the distance, snow-capped mountains proclaimed a determined winter alongside a desperate spring.

At the foot of the mountain, a dark-uniformed figure, its gray chest band butting a stark contrast to the morbid black, Vera Three squinted against the shadowy glare, focusing her gray eyes on the remains of the once-thriving metropolis of Denver, now nothing more than a few broken slabs of concrete. The rest was alabaster dust.

Behind her gaped the mazecar tunnel, a shiny passenger projectile still steaming its warmth from the long journey into the cold clime. Nothing moved beyond the tunnel, and if there had been any sign of Humans here in the last week, that, too, had been erased by wind, rain, or whatever other quirk Nature chose. Now, Vera knew, she must rely on her other senses. Stooping to take a handful of the white dust from the tunnel’s threshold, she closed her fingers tightly about it, directing her thoughts into the very essence of the particles.

Finally, the images came. A man in black...Logan...and a woman in green with brownish hair. (Obviously a pair-up, but Vera didn’t recognize the woman) They’d stopped here and turned toward the city, she saw, but suddenly had seen something and began to run eastward.

“Eastward,” Vera murmured to herself, “but how far?”

Jonathan Three had said that Francis had reported into HQ from this station. But the earth bore no remembrance of his passing this way.

She pressed the blue button on the slim side of her Follower. On the screen, in glowing red, appeared, CAP 22, 2274.

“Two days since I left the City.” She turned eastward. “How far could they have gone in four or five?” Suddenly, a cold shiver ran through her whole being as she sensed a presence behind her. No Human could have felt the exact sensation as the Sandlady did, for they were incapable of the heightened sensitivities of a Meldanan or a Meldanan-Adani hybrid, like herself.

She turned slowly about. A single, twisted Ponderosa pine stood in her sight, its sparse gray needles struggling to hold onto existence. Smiling, she approached the tree, pressed her body against it, and embraced the rough trunk with her slender arms. The images came swiftly: Logan and the woman...running. Then another dark figure. Francis? The tree released, Vera again turned eastward, picking her way through the rubble, then beginning the light, tireless lope which allowed her to cover hundreds of kilometers in a single day. Occasionally, she’d stop to listen to another handful of earth or see what another deformed tree or shrub had seen and alter her course accordingly. But night descended before she anticipated, enveloping her in starless darkness. The night air affected Vera quickly, but she knew she _could_ not, _must_ not allow the darkness to inhibit her search. Neither could she pause to rest but must keep moving to maintain her already low body temperature.

There were no noises in the night about her as she ran through the inky night, for all creatures which might have produced them had been rendered extinct by the Great Catastrophe, ironically also dubbed the Little War. The nights were now silent. Dead.

As she pressed swiftly through the undergrowth, which slowed her progress, thorny limbs tore at her arms and legs, and by morning, the sheer black leggings, which had once adequately protected her legs, hung in limp gauzy shreds. Forcing herself to slow her pace, at last, Vera’s breath came in sharp gasps, and she allowed herself to pause, to read the images of the earth, once more. The yellow clay she held showed the image of Francis, his face streaked with perspiration and dirt, his uniform torn in several places and stained with blood. The darkened blue-green eyes seemed overly anxious as they searched the horizon for his prey. But it was the first clear image she’d found of him, the first solid evidence he’d come before her on this same path. If only the earth could tell her how long ago he’d passed. But to find Francis, she must keep going.

All her senses, increased by peak metabolic function, concentrated on the path before her, first through a field of still brown grass and next into what had once been a spruce forest. What she didn’t sense were the eyes which watched Vera from the forest’s depths and heights.

Like a huge primordial beast, they were upon Vera and with her enormous strength sublimated by their numbers, she was powerless to resist. While the others held her, a male with blondest hair, curled and bearded, his slim body clothed in white silkskins, thrust a metal rod under her chin.

“Say, what we gotta here?” he said, snickering. “Looks like Sandfella, ‘cept not Sandfella...look like girlie in Sandfella skin, eh?”

Vera curbed her anger, as her eyes scanned the group, ignoring the initial pain caused by the prodding metal rod. Shiny yellow devilsticks circled her beyond the prison of young male bodies, and yet she noticed these were not men but boys, none more than twenty-years-of-age. It was then she recalled Francis’ training on Outside. These must be the Pleasure Gypsies, who called themselves Dee’stickers. They weren’t really Runners, since they’d all left the City on hitting their first Green year. These were the ones who self-terminated on the first red glow of their lifeclocks in defiance of the Law.

But the white-silked male was not to be denied his answer. His stinger stick pressed further into the gap behind her jawbone. “I asks you question, you answer. Now answer.” His eyes grew hard and cold with the last demand.

His face pressed closer to Vera’s, and she could see the weals of numerous wounds recently sealed with pink synthaskin. Her eyes fixed the male’s blue ones, and she answered, trying to avoid those pale-colored orbs. “I am a Sandman...a female Sandman.” Her eyes left his and darted to the others to see if they believed her. “Have you seen another Sandman pass this way? One with curly brown hair, the other with straight, light-colored.”

The male, who seemed to be the group’s leader, removed the rod from her throat then began to nervously twist the gleaming jewels on his fingers. “Maybe so, maybe not so. What’s to you, girlie?”

Another of the males, one of the men holding Vera, remarked, “Let’s wrap this one up and take to home, Rutago.”

The leader walked around Vera, evaluating his captive. “Who take her on dee’stick? You?”

“Maybe so you. Nice and soft,” the other emphasized, stroking the woman’s arms, then ripping off her sleeve to expose the silky flesh of her arm. “Make good mattress.” His hand had already moved to tear the front of Vera’s tunic as Rutago laughed, when she noticed there were none of the reported females in this group.

“You must release me,” Vera shouted above the laughter. The man’s hand dropped. “I’m after a Runner.”

“Ooooeee!” the leader yelped. “She-girl after Runnerman. Maybe so make big trouble ifie we snatch her, huh?” He poked her in the stomach with the stingerstick, and she doubled over in acute pain. Suddenly, his young face contorted with hatred. “Take her!” he hissed and stalked off to his devilstick.

When they placed Vera on another devilstick and had flown into the gray sky, Rutago thrust the stingerstick into one of his high-cuffed velvet boots and mounted the carefully tooled leather saddle of his own. “Maybe so I use the Hemodrone on this one, too,” he mused to himself. “Maybe her let me wild her for antidote. So what if she Red and me Green.” All gypsies knew they’d never see more than one day on Red. “Yeah, San’girlie gonna have ta earn that antidote...not like Runner-girl, this one.” Smiling at the prospect, he fired his jetcycle into the sky, screaming “Dee’sticker go! Stickereeeee!” 

As Rutago skimmed the tops of the barren trees, a black-clad figure stepped out of them, Flamegun in hand. He brought up the weapon, pointing it at the back of the white-silked rider. But a voice within him pounded, “You are only allowed to terminate Runners!” The Flamegun returned to hang limply at the owner’s side, the other hand removed the Follower from its clip then brought it to face level. The glowflicker of the Runner appeared on the scanner graph. Two, three kilometers...maybe four.

He knew only too well Rutago’s plans for the female—any female—and had no desire for that fate to befall the Sandlady. She was different from other women. More proud? What? He didn’t know. But she was special, very special. All the Sandmen agreed on that, if nothing else.

The Runner was headed southwest. It would be easy to relocate him in a day or so.

He knew the Sandlady’s test results but had no idea whether her strengths could affect her own escape. So, at last, he replaced the Follower and made his way through the dark trees.

But the dark figure in DS garb wasn’t the only sentient being aware of Vera’s present dilemma. At the opposite end of the forest, a blond-haired man and a girl also watched the devilsticks rise into the air. They’d stopped to rest, having come far and fast, when the jet sounds of the devilsticks had pressed them into hiding beneath a rotting log.

“What is it?” the young woman asked, as the man pressed her farther under the log, shielding her with his arm.

“Devilsticks—the Pleasure Gypsies, again.” The man’s sharp features contorted as he studied the departing Dee’stickers. “They’ve got someone.” His pale blue eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun, as it temporarily penetrated the trees, blocking his view. Then his features relaxed into sudden horror. “Oh, no! It’s Vera!”

The woman with him, his pair-up, seemed quite agitated, her eyes flashing in a sunburned face, one moments before deathly pale with fatigue but now flushed with suppressed anger. “Who’s Vera?” she demanded, gripping her partner’s arm.

He turned to her quite seriously, looking back to the distant skies. “The Sandlady,” he explained, “the only female to ever become a Sandman.”

But the woman still couldn’t understand his concern. “So? Another Sandman, another enemy, just like Francis. She’d kill us for Runners just as fast as he would. The sooner we leave this place, the sooner we’ll find Sanctuary.”

“No,” the man replied, standing.

The woman became angrier. “Why?” Her eyes blazed. “What’s she to you? You’re not a Sandman now. You’re a Runner. You don’t have any more loyalties to them.”

The blue eyes in the hard face grew cold and icy. “I’ll always be a Sandman. Nothing can change that...nothing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of rescuing her. We barely escaped the Gypsies ourselves, and now you expect me to follow you back there?”

“No, you’d stay here.” He started away.

“How can you help her? You lost your Gun.”

“I’ll find a way,” he said over his shoulder. “Stay put! Don’t go anywhere til I get back.”

“And what if you don’t get back?”

“If I’m not back by morning, head southwest by yourself.”

The man, tall and lean, straight blond hair still impeccably in place, despite his otherwise dirtied face, pressed through the trees, his white silk tunic miraculously escaping destruction. He seemed too perfectly undisturbed for one so physically exhausted.

The old saloon was oddly deserted as he entered it—quite different from a short few hours before when his pair-up had lain on the bar, drugged, and Rutago had thrust a knife into his hand, demanding an ounce of the woman’s flesh for the antidote to the Hemodrone killing her slowly. The blood still smeared the shiny surface of the heavily lacquered wood, but the knife was gone.

His bare feet crossed silently on the planked flooring and the door to the living area not far away. A few more meters. Then he heard a scuffling sound of booted feet and glimpsed a shadow behind a large, round, felt-topped table. The figure stepped into the dimming light, two meters tall and dressed in DS blacks, his Gun pointed down the white-shirted man’s throat.

“Who are you? One of them?” the other said, jerking his head toward the door.

“No,” the silk-clad one replied, studying the DS man, his halo of wavy white-blond hair and the overly muscled physique. “I’m Logan Five.” He clenched left fist tight. “Sandlady’s in there. They captured her.”

“Sandlady?” The taller one’s green eyes narrowed.

“Vera Three. Say, what kind of DS man are you, if you don’t know about the Sandlady?”

“I’m new,” the other said.

“What’s your name?” Logan asked, wondering how any Sandman couldn’t know about Vera...or Logan’s Runner status. Any other DS man would’ve terminated him on sight. But this one hadn’t.

The other was studying him, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on his face. “You are...Vera’s friend?”

“Yes.”

“You are familiar with this place?”

Again, Logan replied in the affirmative.

“Then you can help me. But I must warn you, Logan Five, I will allow you to come only so far, and then you must leave.”

“Will you see Vera’s helped to safety?”

“It is my sworn duty to insure her safety.” He edged open the door with his booted toe. “Proceed.”

The narrow hall was dark, but light showed under several doors. Logan looked back at the Sandman, a question on his lips, but the other motioned silence. Then the tall man stopped, seeming to concentrate on the muffled sounds within the rooms behind the closed doors, sifting them apart in his mind until he found the voice he sought. Logan listened too, and they both turned their attention to the farthest door.

The Sandman motioned for Logan to leave and then made his way down through the darkness, his Flamegun drawn and poised for action.

From just inside the saloon, Logan saw the Sandman stop, and it was then he ran back to where he’d left Jessica, his head pounding with confusion. Nothing made sense back there. That Sandman...he’d never said his name...why had he acted so strangely?

Logan’s silks damp with perspiration when he finally reached Jessica, he pulled her up from the forest floor, panting. “Come. Let’s get out of here. Something’s pretty weird back there.”

“What about your precious Sandlady?” Jessica said with a sneer, still miffed.

“She’ll be all right. But that’s all I’m sure of.”

Vera stood before Rutago, the blue mesh flowrobe she now wore leaving more of her body

exposed than covered. Rutago, though, was confused, for the female had shown no effects of the Hemodrone he’d forced down her throat an hour earlier. The Sandgirlie just stood there, looking at him defiantly, her gray eyes like ice, her whole body bristling at his touch. She certainly wasn’t like the Runnergirl but, like the other, prohibited him from obtaining what he desired. As his hand now stroked her bare arm, his eyes followed the movement, not seeing her other arm rise slowly with poised fingers.

Before she could act, a sound came from behind. Rutago heard it, too, his eyes widening as he stepped back from the woman, reaching, searching for his stingerstick, although a green flame erupted through his screaming flesh first.

Vera turned.

A heap of black landed at her feet, her Flamegun, Follower, and belt on top of it. And, when her eyes returned to the doorway, they met the sight of a tall, black figure racing rapidly away. Dressed quickly, she ran through the old saloon which served as the Pleasure Gypsies’ palace, and next sped back into the forest after the fleeing black form.

Already the sky grew dark, but whether the Sandman leading her through the barren pines and spruce was Francis or some other Sandman from the City, she couldn't discern. Once free of the trees, the man changed direction and raced southward, slightly west. Close behind, Vera followed, her feet skimming over the chalky ground. But the man vanished suddenly, and when she reached the spot, Vera knew why.

A mazecar tunnel lay hidden in the tall grass; and fallen in the twisted, dry blades lay a tarnished plaque, bearing the words, BLACK HILLS STATION.

Cautiously, she descended the dozen steps into the black tunnel and in the distance heard a mazecar approaching. Next, without having to punch for it on the wall panel, it slid to a stop before her. Inside, she spoke the coded words, “Code Red, Black Three,” and the panel raised to reveal a graphed scanner. On it, appeared the glowflicker of the mazecar mere meters ahead.

“Black Seven,” she said, and the 'car slipped away, chasing the other.

Half an hour later, the 'car slid to a stop before another flight of stairs. As Vera ascended these, her Follower began softly beeping. Glancing at the screen, the graph showed the red glow of a Runner less than fifty meters distance from the tunnel’s entrance. So, Flamegun drawn, she walked cat-quiet up the remaining steps to the darkness beyond.

The figure, accompanied by another was almost seventy-five meters away now. The taller one turned, his white shirt glaring like a beacon in the darkness, and his palm falling open to expose the flashing red lifedisk.

Vera raised the Gun, aiming it at the body which possessed the blinking crystal. “Give it up, Runner!” she yelled, her voice bearing the same unearthly, foreboding quality she’d used that first time, weeks before.

As the two took off in fear, she began to press the triggering devise of the Gun. But a split second before the weapon discharged, her arm was knocked down, the green flame searing granite rock a scant meter away.

Her head jerked to the right to meet a broad band of gray, as strong arms seized hers, causing her gaze to move upward.

“How dare you,” she hissed, but further words stuck in her throat as recognition of her captor came.

“Francis?”

**CHAPTER TWELVE: A Reunion of Discord**

A white smile penetrated the darkness. “Thought I’d never see you again, Sandlady.”

“Then that was Logan I nearly killed. But he wasn’t in uniform. What happened?”

“First of all, the word’s 'terminate,' not 'kill.' You’d better remember that.” United at last, Francis couldn’t take his eyes from her face. It seemed like years since he’d seen her, although he knew with Vera, duty came first. “The Gypsies got Logan and the girl,” he answered finally. “They took his tunic and gave him what he’s wearing now.”

“But who’s the girl?” Vera asked.

“Jessica Six.”

“Since when has Logan known her?”

Francis guided her in the direction the Runners had headed. “He met her a few days before he went Lastday, I think. Still don’t know how or where.”

“You’re not going to...terminate Logan, are you?”

“No, but have fired at them. Can’t say it did any good. They’re still going the wrong direction.

“By the way,” he said, changing the subject, “those Gypsies didn’t give you any Hemodrone

did they?”

She nodded in response, and he stopped, turning her toward him. “You got the antidote, didn’t you?”

“No need. That particular chemical is non-poisonous to my race.”

“There she goes," Francis mumbled, raising his eyes to the sky. "Talking like a damn alien again,”

He released her and continued walking. “When did you find out about Logan?”

Vera studied the familiar face, or the part she could see in the moonless dark. “Six days past, but was surprised to see his lifeclock still blinking. Shouldn’t it have gone black days ago?”

“Theoretically. Probably the cooler temperatures this far north have slowed the process. When he does go black, we won’t be able to track him with our Followers, so be thankful for the time we have.”

Both were silent a moment, then Vera asked, “When was the last time you slept?”

His hand waved it off. “Can’t remember.”

She stepped in front of him, blocking the way. “Don’t you think you should rest?” Her hand reached up and grasped his chin, turning his face back and forth. “Why, I can tell, even in this blackness, your eyes are bloodshot. I shudder to think what you look like under that synthaskin.” Her hand grasped her own shoulder as she shivered. But it wasn’t from the thought of Ballard’s fatigued features.

“And just how the Hell am I supposed to rest and keep up with Logan?”

“I could help, you know.”

“Sure! How?”

“I have ways.”

“I’ll just bet you do.”

She turned away then turned back quickly. “I could make them sleep.”

“Oh, you could, could you?”

Vera could barely make out his form in the moonless night, the bare hands resting on his hips and the white, mocking smile on his face. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Lady, if I’ve learned anything, it’s to never doubt what you say.” He came toward her. “Just tell me one thing. How can you do it?”

“Mental suggestion.”

“Then go to it. They can’t have gotten more than a few hundred meters from here.”

Vera closed here eyes and submerged into a more personal darkness than the one surrounding, her dark brows knotting together in concentration and hands coming to her face, the fingertips touching the center of her forehead. A part of her could feel Francis feeling uneasy at seeing her ability to do these things. She could feel her face growing paler than its natural ivory coloring and her eyes beginning to jerk.

“Logan, please, I can’t go any farther. I’ve got to rest.”

The blond-haired man stood over the young woman where she’d sunk to the ground. “I’m tired, too, Jess, but we must keep going.” He briefly gestured into the darkness. “Somewhere out there is Francis. He’s good, Jess. He’ll find us again, just like he did in Denver.”

Jessica 6 leaned wearily against a nearby tree trunk. “I don’t care anymore.”

Logan half-pulled her to her feet. “Don’t you understand? That Operative back there...”

“What about him?” she said, resisting.

“It was the Sandlady, Jess. I’m sure of it. I’ll never forget that hunting voice.”

“Sandlady?” she said, confused, looking up at him.

Logan gave up and sat beside her, wondering how she could have forgotten so soon. “Vera Three, remember, the only female to meet all the requirements. She’s stronger, faster, more intelligent than any other Sandman.” He frowned then added, “And she can be positively ruthless.”

“A woman?” Jessica was still confused, more from lack of sleep than lack of intelligence.

Logan looked at her tired eyes, already half-closed with mounting fatigue. “She was my friend. Francis was my friend. But Runners don’t have friends, not among Sandmen. I suppose one Runner is just as expendable as another, after all.” He put his arm about her shoulder and drew her closer. “But even Sandmen have to sleep. If only I still had my Gun.” His eyelids grew heavy. “Got to keep going, Jess...can’t stop...can’t take the risk.” Eyes closed, his head leaned against the trunk of the distorted aspen behind them. “Gotta...find...Sanctuary.”

Vera turned to Francis. “They’ll sleep until morning. If you’d rather not sleep the same amount of time, I can simulate the results with only suspended consciousness for half-an-hour.”

“Let her out of my sight for two lousy weeks, and she comes back talking like a damn alien, again, “he muttered. “What about you? How long can you go without sleep?”

“I shall estivate for a quarter-hour, but it would be fatal to do so now. The evening temperatures this far north are detrimental to my metabolic functions.”

Francis sighed and pulled her to the ground. “There you go, again. Can’t you forget that stuff now you’re back? Do you mean you’d freeze to death if you ‘estivate’? Damn, Vera, it’s warm to me.”

Her eyes met his in the darkness. “My normal body temperature is thirty-eight degrees Celsius. During estivation it falls eight more. I find the air now quite uncomfortable. Do those answers meet your questions?”

“Vera, if you had additional layers of clothing, could you tolerate the cold?”

“Possibly.”

He undid his gun belt and started pulling off both overtunic and tunic.

“Francis, no! You can’t.”

But he had them off and was starting them over hers. “This should keep you warm until you come out of estivation.” Her hands pulled through the sleeves, he brought her against his chest. “Don’t argue. Now, go ahead. You can put me into that equivalent state when you’re finished.”

“This is hardly the usual position for estivation,” she pointed out.

“He held her closer and laughed. “You mean you can’t do it.”

She pulled away, her pride aroused. “Of course, I can, in this position or any other.”

“Then do it.”

Within moments as he watched, her eyes grew terribly shiny and then black before they slowly closed. Her breathing became shallow, her breaths farther and farther apart until he could scarce feel her breath upon his naked chest. Now his hand reached up and brushed away the dark hair from her face. Her skin was so soft, so cold...as if she were... No, he wouldn’t allow himself to think that way. While his fingers caressed her hair, the night breeze ruffled it away and over his hand, giving it life. His lips touched that living part of her, the only one with movement. And, at that moment, he felt other motion, other movement. But then it passed, and all was still once more. He drew her closer, willing her to end the silent loneliness.

While Vera slept, she dreamed, remembering...

Her thigh muscles had ached from the long Run of the day. The paired Runners had been good. A shame to have to terminate them. But she did, to maintain her cover, maintain her integrity in the City as a Sandman. Now, in the gym, the inviting, steaming hydro beckoned and she gave in, slipping into its pleasurable warmth. Then she saw Logan walk into the HydroRoom in his DS-black bathing trunks.

When he saw Vera, he turned and came back limping. “Mind if I join you?”

She shook her head in reply, and he eased down into the small but deep hydrotonic, emitting a sigh of relief as the hot waters soothed his own tired muscles. They were together in the small pool for minutes without a word, each slowly moving their aching limbs, now and then directing them toward the flow valve for additional relief. Then Vera slid down until only her head remained above water, reveling in the relaxing warmth, eyes closed as she half-dozed.

Logan disturbed her relaxation with, “You know, you’re a pretty lucky girl.”

Her eyes opened in surprise. “Why?”

Logan grinned impishly, as if it were the only reason he’d joined her in the ‘tonic. “Not certain, you understand, but I’m pretty sure you’re Francis’ first pair-mate.”

Vera shrugged, “Surely, he’s had others.”

“No, not that I remember.”

She noticed he regarded her indifferent reaction out of the corner of his eyes.

“He’s different, now, too,” said Logan.

At last, Vera’s curiosity was aroused. “Different how?”

“More serious.” Logan shifted, working his legs. “Oh, he still kids around a lot, but not like before.” He paused, once more whetting her curiosity. “Yeah,” he continued, rubbing his right calf, “he’s really lifted on you.”

Vera moved in closer to Logan, gave a quick glance around the room to make sure no one was listening and lowered her voice. “Tell me something, Logan. You and I never have much chance to speak alone—without Francis around, I mean—not that any questions I have are ones he shouldn’t hear, but …”

Logan grinned that nerve-wracking grin of his. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

“Well,” she started then paused before going on. “How long have you known Francis?”

Logan stretched his arms above his head. “Oh, about six years, I guess. Why?”

“You know him pretty well then.”

“I’d say so.”

Vera spoke even lower now. “Has he ever voiced any doubts about the City, about Renewal, you know, things like that?”

Logan started to laugh but appeared to realize she was deadly serious. “No, he hasn’t.”

“You realize I can’t ask him these things. I’m afraid he’ll either think me silly or turn me over to Thinker. Probably, though, he’d just laugh.”

“Laugh about what?” asked Logan with a note of caution in his voice.

“Remember what I said at Carrousel, when we celebrated my getting into DS?”

“Yeah, that the Lastdayers could be anyone behind those masks, even androids or something.”

“Right. Maybe just being so few years away from Carrousel myself, makes me question it all. Did you ever wonder if Computer or Thinker ever makes mistakes—puts someone on Lastday before their time, turns their crystals Red before their Green years are done?”

Logan smiled nervously. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

Her voice now became a whisper. “It seems as if no one does.”

She was silent a long time before speaking again. “Is there any way I could find out if Francis has ever had a pair-mate—without asking him?”

Laughing, Logan said, “Your feminine curiosity’s aroused, I take it.”

Vera smiled coyly. “Just a bit.”

“I suppose Records would have his file for review. It does on all DS personnel, past and present—even’s started records for the future DS in Nursery.” Logan had started to ask her another question, but she was up and out of the pool before he could open his mouth.

More minutes passed, and an arm reached up Francis’, the sleeve of his tunic covering a small, pale hand. Then, black-lashed lids opened and cool gray eyes met his.

“Welcome back, Sandlady,” he whispered.

She smiled the way which had haunted his dreams the last weeks, and Francis bent his head to hers. Her lips were warmer than he recalled, her skin softer, her eyes more fathomless, so lowered her into the damp grass.

“Don’t make me sleep now,” he whispered. “When we’re together, all I want to do is love you.”

Her hands reached up to touch his face then moved into his wavy hair, pulling him down to her.

Later, while Francis slept, Vera thought a great deal about why this man made her abandon her whole way of life to be with him, in what her world called a degenerate, dehumanizing society. She never imagined this happening and agreed to this mission partly because of her reputation for spurning the romantic advances from men of many races, while at the same time maintaining their utter trust and loyalty. By deciding to return to the Domed City, she’d rejected her rightful inheritance and a comfortable future, although her life had always been ruled indirectly by the whims of men. Her father had deserted a motherless infant, and her uncle had raised her with little understanding or tolerance for her bi-racial beginnings. Because of this, and her male cousin, she’d entered a world of apathy to be merely tolerated, rather than understood or appreciated.

Her first marriage a few years later didn’t last long, consisting of convenience not affection. Her second marriage made up for those decades of frustration, but unlike any other man in her life, Tlasus understood her moods and fanatical drives. There shared a second kind of love--not only a romantic or passionate love but also a quiet compassionate one between close friends. Except that joining, too, was short-lived, for Tlasus soon died, once more leaving L’Pira without a man to understand her. Twenty-two years later, she’d taken this mission, meeting the man called Francis Seven.

He changed her life as much as, or more, than any man in her life. She was his first pair-mate, never having another before. Neither did Ballard, which Vera discovered upon checking the files. Was it the compassion of the man Ballard, which made Francis take her in and hide her true identity, or an unrequited emotion within the man which compelled him to protect her for another reason.

The skies were still black when Francis awoke, Vera sitting a meter away, arms wrapped about her knees, calmly waiting for him to speak.

“You have any food with you?” was the first thing he said.

“Some tablets of nutrient concentrate,” she said, reaching into her pouch and handing him one of the small, brown wafers. As she did, Vera added, “I haven’t thanked you for rescuing me from the Gypsies and Rutago, have I?

“Rutago?” Francis replied.

“Yes.”

He popped the 2-inch wafer into his mouth then frowned. “I didn’t know you were captured by them. When did it happen?”

“Days ago. A Sandman killed him, but I didn’t see who it was. I followed him to a mazecar station and in a 'car to here. Naturally, when you grabbed me outside the tunnel, I assumed it was you I’d been following.”

“Wasn’t me,” Francis affirmed.

“Then who?”

“Tremayne’s on backup,” he commented after a slight pause. “Could’ve been him.”

“But if it was, where'd he vanish to?”

“Tremayne’s good at vanishing, that’s how he made Operative before turning Red.”

Vera’s eyes narrowed. “Earlier, you asked if the Gypsies gave me Hemodrone, and now you disavow any knowledge of my capture.”

Francis ruffled his hair. “I did, didn’t I? Seems something inside my head made me ask you. Really a weird sensation, almost as if I’ve been taken over by someone else’s mind.”

Vera’s frown increased, and her eyes became concerned. But the moment passed. “There’s something I’ve been wondering, Francis.”

“What’s that?” He was still confused at his last answer and was glad for a change of subject.

“What does love mean to you?”

He’d hardly planned for her to ask this and thought she must be joking, so said, half-laughing, “Love?”

“Yes. What did you mean when you said you loved me?”

She had to be kidding. She couldn’t be serious, could she? Now he said, “That I like having sex with you.”

“Is that all?”

Her line of questioning became increasingly uncomfortable. How could he get her to change the subject again? Better yet, what did she expect him to say? He cleared his throat and looked her in the eye. “I like having you around. I like talking to you.” She was leading up to something. But what?

“Why am I your first pair-mate?”

So, that was it. Now he thought fast. “Who says you’re my pair-mate?”

“Logan. But everyone at HQ thinks I am.”

Francis smiled while silently cursing Logan’s big mouth. “That’s what I want them to think.”

“So, I’m not, then.”

“I didn’t say that, either,” he said smiling. _Damn this woman. Better change the subject myself._ “I’ve been thinking about going to Sanctuary for good. Want to come with me?”

“With you—as Ballard or as Francis Seven?”

“Haven’t decided.”

She grew silent, which Francis thanked her for, because it gave him more time to organize his own thoughts before she bombarded him with more questions he couldn’t answer.

Then she said, “How did you make the change, the initial change from Ballard? What happened to the real Francis Seven?”

At last he was on safe ground. He rose up on an elbow and then began the story. “Francis was ten years younger than me—a trainee of mine. Even though he’d been selected before conception as a Sandman, he just didn’t have what it took. I saw it the first week of duty training. He hated the killing, he hated Carrousel, hated everything about the City. Then, one day, he went Outside after a runner and hadn’t returned within a week or reported in.”

“What happened?” Vera asked, encouraging him to continue.

“I took the assignment to terminate him or bring him back. Eventually, I did find him but made a deal: Sanctuary for his identity. You see, by then Sanctuary had been established for five years. So, we decided I’d report in at HQ, wearing a synthaskin mask of his features, with the news the twenty-nine-year-old Ballard had been killed in an accident. All that was left was the Thinker’s reprogramming before I returned to the City as Francis.”

“Then what about Francis Eight? You said you weren’t his seed-father,” Vera reminded him.

The Sandman shook his head. “That was the real Francis Seven.”

“But Francis Eight can’t be older than ten.”

“He’s nine. It was several years after the donation before Thinker found what it considered to be the proper seed-mother.”

Then Francis grew serious, unusually quiet, diverting his eyes from Vera’s. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

She rose and turned her back on him. “You needn’t say it aloud. I see it in your mind.”

“There was nothing to be done,” he said, turning toward her.

“The essence of my ancestor chose to return to its own place.”

Francis came to his feet. “Essence? What the Hell are you talking about?”

She faced him, calmly. “When the essence of an ancestor chooses to become mortal, it causes a conceptus to be formed of a Meldanan or part-Meldanan. Until the product of that conception reaches maturity, the essence can choose to return to immortality. In that case, the child or embryo dies, but at maturity, the essence becomes the individual’s and is released only after death.”

“What kind of religious rubbish are you feeding me?” Francis asked, incredulous. “Vera Four didn’t die because some ‘essence’ decided to leave. She died because her heart never formed.”

“My words are not religious rubbish or fanaticism, Francis, but biological fact. An individual can be weighed immediately before and after death. Following death, the body is exactly five-tenths of a gram lighter. Furthermore, the essence of the deceased can assume solid form, can be felt and heard to speak.”

Francis took Vera by the shoulders. “You’ve been through a lot lately. You can’t even be completely recovered from that crash. What do you say to going back to the City?”

“Which would make everything easier for you, right? You wouldn’t have a fanatical female holding you back.” She pulled from his grasp. “Jonathan’s offered to take me on as his Trainee in your absence. Maybe I should return and take him up on it. Maybe _he_ could teach me many things you never could...or would.”

Francis again took her arms, keeping her from going. “Stay away from Jonathan, do you hear? He’s nothing but an oversexed leech.”

“Really? He didn’t strike me that way at all, and what right do you have calling anyone oversexed?” Again, she struggled free. “I’ve noticed something about the people of Domed City since I first came. Things, words, don’t mean the same as I think of them, as Humans think of them in my previous life.”

“What things?”

“Words describing how one person feels about another—words like ‘respect, trust...and love.'”

 _“_ Back to that, again, eh?”

“Yes, because I realize that particular word doesn’t mean to me what it does to you. I think all it means to you is sex!”

“What else is there?” Francis was still confused. No fem had ever spoken to him like this. Neither did any of them have the mental capacity to question or discuss anything worth while.

“What _else_?" this one asked. "I really thought you were different than the other male Citizens. I convinced myself you had to be because of what you’ve done, but you’re just as heinous as the rest of them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You knew what I gave up staying here. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“How do you expect me to answer?”

“I don’t. I don’t expect anything of you, _anymore.”_

 _"_ Now damn it, wait a minute.”

“What good would that do?” she said, facing him with blazing eyes.

“Shut up and listen for once. You told me how I feel about you, and maybe you’re right. So, why don’t you tell me what I mean to you, huh? Tell me that.”

“I don’t—"

“If love is such an important word to you, what does it mean to you, huh? Tell me, damn it! Don’t just stand there like a dumb mental defect. Answer me!”

“It means...” She was still angry, the words choking in her throat. “it means sharing, trust, companionship. It means feeling empty and incomplete without you.” Tears began to well within her eyes. “And those are obviously pretty asinine qualities in the City. So, if all there is between us is sex, as far as you’re concerned, why should I tie you down?”

For once, Francis was speechless.

“I’m returning to the City,” she continued. “It shouldn’t take more than four days to see Logan and Jessica on their way to Sanctuary from Cape Steinbeck. They’ll be heading directly southeast in the morning. When you do return, I’ll have found another unit and be more than happy to vacate yours.” Tears now pouring down her cheeks, Vera turned and ran the distance to the mazecar tunnel, leaving Francis more confused than ever.

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Return to the Domed City**

Two days later, Vera returned to the City and arrived in front of Sandman Headquarters, terribly weak and face more drawn and pale, than when she’d left Francis. Even now her head swam with confusion from her last conversation with him. Slowly, one at a time, she mounted the gray steps, leaned against the cool silvery metal walls of the elevator then walked slower still through its opening doors to Control Central and on to Computer Room, where she stopped before the descending domed console.

Her hand reached out and shakily touched the silver cone.

“IDENTIFY,” Thinker ordered with feminine sultriness.

“Vera Three.”

“REPORT.”

“Return to the City twenty-two-fifteen from backup assignment with Francis Seven. He is still in pursuit of Runners Logan Five and Jessica Six. Termination expected within two more days.”

“YOU WERE NOT ASSIGNED AS BACKUP TO FRANCIS SEVEN.”

“I was assigned to him before.” Her exhaustion turned quickly to resentment at the computer’s delving. “On a previous assignment Outside, we were separated. When I achieved return to the City, he was Outside, once more. I considered it my duty to find Francis Seven and assist.”

A beam of light scanned her body. “DO YOU HAVE NEED OF MEDICAL ASSISTANCE?”

“Negative.”

“YOU ARE DISMISSED VERA THREE. RETURN FOR DUTY ASSIGNMENT TOMORROW AT OH-EIGHT-HUNDRED.”

Vera turned and started toward the doorway, where green-legged Damon Three stood watching, having also heard her report. She knew he was one of the few Sandman she could trust, and as she neared him, allowed herself to succumb to the growing weakness, which permeated her entire being. Collapsing, her hand reached out to him. “Damon, help me!” she whispered.

He was swiftly at her side, his innocent, young face full of concern. “I’ll send for one of the med-techs,” he said, helping her to her feet.

Vera’s hand gripped his arm in protest. “No! No doctors. Just get me to my unit. There’s medication there.”

Now on her feet, the two made their way to the elevator and finally the mazecar. But, from the mazecar’s stop, it was necessary for Damon to carry the still conscious Vera to the living unit she shared with Francis.

When he put her down on the bed, Damon asked, “Where’s the medicine you talked about?”

“The other room,” she replied hoarsely, “in the card box.”

Seconds later, he returned with a vial of red liquid. Vera drank a sip then resealed the vial and handed it back.

“You want me to stay awhile,” he said, taking it.

“No. I’ll be fine in an hour or so. Thanks for your help. I’m very grateful.”

He looked down at her, his youthful face oddly stern. “I’d do anything for Francis.”

“I know you would,” she replied, “but I’m not Francis.”

The boy seemed uncomfortable. He was still a Green, probably no older than eighteen. “Three years ago, Francis was my trainer. You’ll find everyone he’s trained is completely devoted to him...in all respects. And now, one of those respects is you.”

Color began returning to Vera’s face and Damon smiled. “The stuff’s working already. You look a thousand times better.” He blushed. “Of course, you always look good. I didn’t mean that, uh...”

Vera touched his hand. “I know. You needn’t apologize.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up while Damon protested.

“You think you should be getting up so soon?”

She smiled. “I’m fine now. Besides, there’s a lot to do, and you’d best return to HQ before they put a black mark on your record.”

The following morning, on entering HQ for her next assignment, Jonathan Three was the first person Vera came across.

“So, what happened Outside? Find him?” Jonathan asked, sensuous upper lip curling in mockery.

Vera pushed past him, but he grabbed her arm. “I asked you a question, Trainee. You gonna answer?” His mouth had become a hard, straight line.

“I made my report last night when I returned. “And I'm not a Trainee but a Full Operative, which means, I’m not accountable to you!”

Jonathan’s fingers dug painfully deeper into her flesh. “Maybe not now, but tomorrow I go Lastday.” His lean features made a semblance of a smile. “Ah, you didn’t know, did you? But you do know the Law-–a Lastdayer gets anything he wants. Anything!” He pushed her away, roughly. “Expect me!”

He started to go but turned and faced her again. "By the way, Tremayne Four just notified us that Francis is dead. That Runner, Logan got ‘im.” Then he smugly added, “Tremayne saw everything. There’s no mistake.”

Vera felt her face turn drain of blood.

“Just as well,” Jonathan mused aloud. “He was due to go Lastday anytime now.” He started laughing, muffled as he left her, walking down the corridor, when it grew louder...hysterical.

Vera moved in a daze through the dark halls. She couldn’t believe Logan would kill Francis. They were...had been...the best of friends.

There was no mental joining between her and the Sandman with the double identity, yet Vera was certain she’d know if Francis were, indeed, dead, so concentrated on directing her thoughts to a more logical analysis of the situation. Tremayne would probably not return for a day or so. Who else could tell her what really happened? Thinker? Damon? Or could she only accept what she beheld with her own eyes? Should she go to where it happened, find Francis’ dead, lifeless body? The mere image of him lying still, no more to laugh, no more to look at her with scowling eyes, no more to touch her... He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. But...

Vera stood before the door to the Records Room. She didn’t know why she’d come here, but walked toward the file of DS records, punching the sorter for TREMAYNE FOUR, her actions guided only by her subconscious. Tremayne’s file came on the viewing screen, his holograph appearing also.

He was a handsome young man. But then all Sandmen were handsome, even Jonathan, in a menacing way. The file indicated Green-Six. Brown eyes, wavy brown hair. Height: 1.8 Mtrs; weight 82 KG. His record also showed since his early days as a trainee, he’d terminated seventy-eight Runners, the reason he’d become an operative before the usual age of twenty-three.

Her hand touched the black VOID button, and the record vanished from the screen. Now her fingers touched another button. 

“Headquarters Control,” responded a disembodied voice.

“Vera Three requesting location of Damon Three.”

‘Arcade Patrol, Great Hall Sector.”

“Acknowledged.”

Her steps now led her past Control’s bank of men—Jonathan ignoring her and lightly conversing with an operative on his left—to the Computer Room.

“IDENTIFY.”

“Vera Three, reporting for assignment as directed.”

The feminine voice remained silent a moment then spoke. “VERA THREE, YOUR FORMER TRAINER..."

_Then it was true!_ her mind screamed.

"...HAS BEEN REPORTED AS TERMINATED.

_Reported, just reported, there was still hope! No, Thinker was always right. A report meant fact. No doubts_

"YOUR NEW PARTNER..."

_New?_

"...SHALL BE TREMAYNE FOUR.”

“Tremayne Four is a Green,” she protested. “I am Red. What can he possibly teach me?”

“TREMAYNE FOUR HAS PROVEN HIMSSELF AS A MORE THAN ADEQUATE SANDMAN. YOU SHALL BE HIS FIRST PARTNER. THE DECISION IS MINE, VERA THREE. YOU SHALL COMPLY.”

“Question: when will the assignment begin?” she asked with resignation.

“UPON HIS RETURN WITHIN TWENTY-SIX HOURS.”

“Acknowledged.”

“YOU ARE DISMISSED, VERA THREE.”

Forty minutes later, Vera finally found Damon 3. He noticed her coming and came to meet her. “You heard?” he said.

She nodded. “How can it be true?”

Damon took her arm and guided her to a secluded spot behind a second level support. “As far as I can find out. But we won’t know the real story until Tremayne gets back.”

“Jonathan seemed to take a great deal of delight in telling me...about Francis,” she said, staring off into the crowds.

“He would!” The light-haired trainee sighed. “They’ve been enemies since the early days, when they were training together. Exactly what did he tell you?”

“That Francis had been killed by Logan, that Tremayne witnessed it.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Damon said shaking his head slowly. “It happened at the old Capitol—you know, the station closed down long ago on the East Coast. Well, Tremayne says he got there to back up Francis and saw him struggling with this Runner.”

“Logan.”

“Yeah, somehow Logan got Francis’ Flamegun, and it went off. When Tremayne got there, Francis was dead, his face...I’m sorry...blown to bits.”

Vera swayed, catching the support for strength, but her voice was steady. “Then how did he know it was Francis?”

Damon answered softly, “Francis was the only other Sandman Outside. It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

Late that night, Vera lay in the pillow pile, thinking. She’d found a processor card for a DS caftan, Francis’ size, and changed into it from her tunic. As she’d done so, she stood naked a moment appraising her body in the mirror, and wondered if Francis had noticed the changes there, and if so, recognized them for what they were. Now, as she lay in the pillows, Vera still wondered.

There was none of the usual background music she so often favored when alone. The Tri-Dim transceiver was blank, even the prismed ceiling was dark, the only light coming from beyond the glass wall and the City beyond, where Vera’s eyes stared beyond to the glowing dots which zipped through the network of mazetubes.

With Francis dead, she supposed the living unit was hers but couldn’t accept the fact of his death, the finality of it. She wondered, even while denying his non-existence, what life in the City would be for her now, without him or Logan to befriend her in future need. Perhaps Damon would become her gallant knight.

Then there was Jonathan 3. But she wouldn’t have to worry about him much longer.

Suddenly, the door slid open, and there he was, staggering and blank-eyed. “Told you I’d come.” He stumbled toward her. “See you’re all ready for a little fun, too.” He stared lecherously at the cleavage revealed by the caftan’s deep V. “Yes, siree, gonna have us a _fine_ time!”

Vera rose and backed away. “You’re high, too high, Jonathan. You’ve been to Hallucimill and haven’t stayed the required time for the drug to wear off.”

“Things look better when you’re still high.” He reached for her arm, but she escaped. “Come on,” he said with a laugh. “Can’t you see...I won’t hurt you. Just a little tumble. Lastdayers get anything they want, remember?”

His full lips were moist, slavering as he looked at her. “Damn,” he said, “I can’t blame ole Francis for taking you as a pair-mate. If I weren’t going on Carrousel myself, I’d take his place. Yeah,” he continued, walking more steadily to where she’d backed herself against the wall, “you’re a tasty-looking morsel, all right, and pretty soon you’ll find out for yourself why all the girlies like ole Jonny-boy.”

There was nowhere for Vera to retreat. Jonathan was on her, pinning her against the wall then pushing her onto the tiered couch. His hand roughly pulled the caftan off one shoulder, exposing most of her upper body as it slid down, and he bent his mouth to the nape of her neck, slobbering kisses down her breast. One of her arms was already pinned at the wrist by his vise-like bony hand, yet her other was free...free to defend herself.

Instinctively, she raised that hand; but Jonathan was quicker, pressing his body harder against hers then twisting her free hand also behind her back, and at the same time throwing his full weight against her.

“Wa’s the matter? Don’t you like ole Jonny-boy? You’re gonna miss me when this is over. No more Jonny-boy after tonight. Be nice now.” His hand tugged at the caftan, raising it to her hips, while her pale legs continued to flail uselessly.

Jonathan’s mouth suffocated Vera, her teeth ached from the pressure of his as he pressed harder and harder against her. Her arms ached, her whole body ached with pain, but still he held her captive, working out his drugged frenzy on her helpless body.

All at once he was wrenched away, vomiting a string of obscenities at the two men in black who held him.

“Sorry, Vera,” one she vaguely recognized as a new Operative, apologized. “We just now got word from the ‘Mill that he left without withdrawal, or we would’ve been here sooner. You all right?”

Vera sat up, adjusting the caftan. Tears were beginning to well into her eyes from the humiliation Jonathan had inflicted upon her by his violation. “No, just a bit bruised.” Standing, she said, “You’ll see he’s detained until Carrousel?”

“Naturally. He won’t bother you or anyone, anymore.” The Operative turned to his partner. “Come, let’s get him out of here.” They walked silently through the door, the now subdued Jonathan between them.

When the door slid to behind them, Vera went to the bedroom and changed back into her DS blacks. This time she didn’t allow the changes in her body to influence her. She couldn’t. She’d made her decision.

The corridors were empty at that hour, so no one disturbed or detained Vera on her way to Computer Central.

“IDENTIFY.”

“Vera Three.”

“STATE PURPOSE.”

“Removal from Integration.”

At the mention of the coded word, the closed doors locked behind her with a shushing click.

“WHY DO YOU REQUEST THIS PROCEDURE?”

Vera stood straight, her eyes now dry and emotions under control. “I do not belong in this culture. I am extraneous. My presence here could create ultimate disruption of the society.”

“IT IS TRUE YOU ARE ALIEN TO THIS WORLD, BUT YOUR INTEGRATION WAS REQUESTED BY ONE WHO IS NOT. YOU SHALL REMAIN SO.”

“He is dead. Without him to assist me, I cannot continue this masquerade.” She displayed her red lifedisk. “I am many years past the age of thirty. I request correction of this error.”

“ERRORS MUST BE CORRECTED, BUT YOU HAVE BEEN DESIGNATED RED-THREE, INDEFINITE. I AM FORBIDDEN TO CORRECT.”

“Your programmer has ceased to function. He is dead,” she repeated, gripping the edge of the chair before her. “You must correct this error, because I request it.”

The computer was silent.

“The error must be corrected,” Vera said once more.

“THERE WAS NO ERROR.”

“If... Question: if I prove you wrong, will you correct?”

“AFFIRMATIVE.”

“You were programmed to integrate all individuals designated by the ending word, Indefinite, by Sandman Francis Seven.”

“AFFIRMATIVE.”

 _“_ Do you acknowledge that Francis Seven is Ballard Two?”

“I SO ACKNOWLEDGE.”

“Francis Seven is dead; Ballard Two is dead. But Francis Seven lives on in Sanctuary. Do you compute?”

“ILLOGICAL.” 

“You are in error, because you disobeyed the prime directive of the City—that all citizens must terminate at the age of thirty. Yet, there are two who have lived past that age within the bounds of this City: myself and Francis Seven. You have recorded Francis Seven’s death. That error is corrected. Now you must correct this error.” Again, Vera displayed her palm, exposing the red crystal. “You must retrogram my lifeclock to Lastday. You must take away my years. You must correct your error.”

“COMPUTERS ARE INCAPABLE OF ERROR.”

“Three weeks ago, my lifeclock began blinking,” Vera began once more, weakly this time, as her energy rapidly failed. “I was brought here for correction and returned to Indefinite status.” She paused, summoning the last remnants of strength for her final assault on Computer’s logic. “You admitted your error then. Admit it now.”

“COMPUTERS ARE INFALLIBLE. ONLY MAN IS FALLIBLE.”

Vera smiled, tremulously. “But it is Man who programmed computers. Therefore, computers must also be fallible.” Her voice became calm for the first time, and she lifted her chin upward. “I am not Man of Earth. I am of beyond Earth. I tell you my species is infallible. Computers are not.”

The Thinker-directed Computer fell silent then said, “I WILL CORRECT.”

It was an old Relive experience, one Vera had felt a hundred times in the last months. She sat and placed her hand, palm down, on the arm rest on her left. As she sighed, the light about her reddened and then brightened again. So, when she removed her hand, the tiny lifeclock within her palm blinked red and then black.

It was over. The fight, the agony, the questioning was all over.

Vera 3 was now Lastday.

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Lastday**

From Sandman Headquarters, Vera went directly to Arcade and Carrousel. The Citizens stared unbelievingly at this DS operative who wore neither weapon nor Follower, and whose face bore a slightly sad smile.

She had never dreamed of walking through this huge portal so soon as a Lastdayer, never dreamed Francis would die so soon, either, but also never allowed herself to think those things. Her life with him had been the most fulfilling, the most enjoyable of all the lives she’d shared with other men...except one. It wasn’t fair. How could Fate do this to her,again, take from her the man she loved and needed, leaving her alone...again, alone, so all alone. Alone, except this time there was another...another life who was also Lastday because of her actions.

She turned to the right and the Preparation Room, calm and accepting. Fate. Before she’d fought it, but now...now she willingly accepted its ultimate decision.

“IDENTIFY.” the Computer said.

Vera 3, Sandlady, placed her small hand upon the clear circle above the pressure plate, and the computer returned, “PASS, VERA THREE. RENEWAL IS NEAR.”

The Lastdayers were assembled in the white, mirrored-floor room, all anonymous figures in

white and red, white deathmasks and hoods already in position over blackened faces. With the hypnotic gases cleared from the room, the programming for the Lastdayers was complete. In five minutes Carrousel would began, and each started to don the white satin robe in which they’d make their terminal entrance, while one or two Preparation Assistants helped those still too groggy from the gases. Over the shoulder of one Lastdayer, who stood nearby, Vera caught the eyes of one she recognized as Jonathan, begging her forgiveness.

“I didn’t know you were Lastday, too, Vera.”

She turned away without responding. She didn’t hate him, not any more. What was there to hate? A product of his environment? What would Francis have been, if he’d not had the knowledge of Outside, or the knowledge and foresight and perseverance to build Sanctuary?

She felt a bit light-headed, but her mind was blank at last, allowing her some moments of peace before going through that door into that Last Room. She wanted to drift, floating as she would moments from now, upward to eternity, upward, ever upward.

Through glazed eyes, she saw a Sandman come into the room, Gun drawn, pulling off one deathmask and then another. His action reminded her of that time, which seemed long ago, but was less than a month, when she and Francis had searched this very Prep Room, looking for a Runner.

It was bad to Run. Runners were terminated. Good Citizens Renewed. 

Where had she learned that; when did she begin to believe it? Did she believe it? Of course, since she was here, wasn’t she?

Her eyes and mind again returned to this room and the others occupying it. The Sandman was coming toward her.

She giggled. It was Tremayne.

He pulled her to her feet and removed her deathmask, and she reached out for it, but he held it too far from her feeble grasp.

“You don’t belong here,” he said, his voice husky.

She held up her palm, unsteady on her feet. “But you see,” she said, looking at her blinking lifeclock, “I do.”

Tremayne dragged her after him, his dark eyes blazing with anger, saying, “Vera, there’s a way to change it. Believe me, there is.” His lips met hers, desperately, in an attempt to erase the drug’s effects from her mind and convince her of his true identity.

“CAPRICORN-TWENTIES, BORN TWENTY-TWO-FORTY-FOUR. ENTER CARROUSEL.”

Vera pulled away from him at the words, eyes once more gone blank, as she replaced the deathmask, because to Vera 3 the words were the call of destiny...a destiny she’d anticipated for decades as an end to her suffering.

But to the man known as Tremayne, it announced the death of his very being.

Vera turned, following the others through the open door, head contritely bowed and hands hidden in the voluminous sleeves.

“Vera, you can’t!” the man shouted after her. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

She didn’t seem to hear him.

When the door closed behind her, Tremayne left to enter the huge arena where the rest of the citizens awaited the daily spectacle.

“THIS IS THE TIME OF RENEWAL,” the voice chimed.

There was long applause, and the voice continued, as the Lastdayers took their places around the huge floor crystal of Life.

“IDENTIFY,” the computer voice intoned, and all the figures displayed their blinking red lifedisks to the audience’s roar.

“BE STRONG, AND YOU WILL BE RENEWED.”

The applause became deafening. Then it finally died. From the entrance tunnel to the arena, Tremayne looked to the circle, at last. The Lastdayers had already discarded their robes, with uncanny precision.

“RISE,” the computer ordered, and as the tinkling Carrousel music began, the Lastdayers started their ascent to the heights of the conic field. One by one they reached them and burst into white sparks of fire. All but a solitary figure.

The final form to enter the circle around the huge lifeclock finally ascended, face uplifted and arms thrown back in submission when the floor’s disc began to spin more rapidly, something never seen before.

Tremayne gripped the railing, wanting to crush the life from the very essence of this damnable City as he watched the woman rise higher and higher. Amid the deafening shouts of “Renew!” his own voice whispered a single plea. “Please.”

The single, remaining red and white form reached higher still, past the point where the others had vanished in fire, deprived of Renewal, deprived of reaching the giant white crystal of Rebirth, past the conic field, then suddenly this figure, also disappeared, but in a sparkling bath of light mere centimeters from the glowing white crystal.

There was a concerted gasp from the jaded audience. No citizen had ever vanished in such a display. At last, in reverent awe, the people filed out, some still pausing to look back in silence to where the woman had disappeared. This day would not be soon forgotten among them.

Tremayne, too, had left, wiping the unSandman-like tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. He’d also seen enough. But when he stepped into Arcade, there was a smile on his face. He walked quietly past the oddly mute crowd of citizens in their bright colors, his somber form, as always, commanding a path before him to the mazecars.

Inside, he spoke the destination softly. “Nursery Sector.” If only Vera had been able to hear what he’d just learned upon his return to the city, that a new Vera, Vera 4, had reached blastocoel with a good chance of seeing term. If she’d only listened back in that night to hear what Francis was not given the opportunity to tell her, that the doctors had tried again and been successful. Perhaps the Ancestor had changed its mind and returned for another chance at mortality. It was a nice thought. But, at any rate, Tremayne had the satisfaction that whether Vera Four survived to term or not, Vera 3 had Renewed.

The High Matriarch of Meldana was quite angry and yet undeniably relieved to be alive. Beside her, Tregar looked unnaturally smug.

“Why, Tregar?”

“I could not allow you to destroy a life other than your own.”

“How did you know?”

“Doctor Mellenthius is quite careless with his records.”

“I thought you hated me.”

The tall, blond man, crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “I believe we settled that viewpoint the last time you were here. If I disliked you, I would hardly have saved you from the gypsies.”

“That was you?”

He nodded.

She stroked the length of her lower lip. “Yes, now it all makes sense. You were the other Sandman in my unit the night Jonathan tried to rape me.”

Again, he nodded.

“Again, why, Tregar?”

“I have already expressed my opinion on your hasty decision to terminate by Carrousel. Although my opinions do not always agree with yours, I have obeyed your wishes. This time I could not.”

“And what now?” she asked.

“We will return to Meldana, where you will bear the Human’s child. Whenever you wish, thereafter, we may return here, if it is still your wish. However, I would advise against staying in the City as a Citizen. Your presence there would be unnatural.”

Vera’s eyes narrowed. “What right do you have dictating my future? If I decide to return to Domed City, I shall.”

“The child you carry bears the essence of Tlasus, your late husband.”

“I don’t believe you. I claim you are wrong.”

“If I am right, what then, Vera?”

Without hesitating, she said, “I will do whatever you wish.”

“If the child bears the usual Essence Resemblance, will you accept it as proof of Tlasus’ possession of the infant?”

“Yes, I will so accept.”

Tregar turned and walked slowly toward the door then turned about slower still. “If I speak the truth, you will do anything I wish?”

“Anything.”

He smiled vaguely, probably the first time such an emotion had appeared on his face. “Then, my dear L’Pira, I will claim you as my consort.”

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Aftereffects**

The day after Vera 3’s ascent and supposed Renewal, Logan 5, and Jessica 6 returned to the City, appearing wet and disheveled on the second level balcony of the Great Hall.

“No, don’t go in there!” Logan bellowed to the citizens milling their way toward Carrousel. “No one has to die at thirty. You can live! Live and grow old. I’ve seen it! She’s seen it,” he screamed as the people turned away. “Lifeclocks are a lie,” he continued. “Carrousel’s a lie! There is no Renewal.”

The crowd mumbled displeasure at the ranting of the returned Sandman, many laughing.

“We’ve been Outside,” Jessica began as the people turned to stare. “There’s another world Outside.”

Soon other black figures had come to take them away for interrogation, and the crowd resumed their entry to Carrousel.

But Logan’s answers severed Computer's logic. All over the Domed City, giant lifeclocks burst, huge towering building disintegrated before the citizen’s eyes, and the giant domes themselves erupted into nothingness. But oddly, the Nursery Sector, by some miracle, remained untouched.

Forced Outside, the Citizens of the City met futility. No longer could their needs be met without labor. But it was the Sandmen, who with their training and superior intellect put things to right, restoring a semblance of order to the dissolved unity of the City.

Within five years, the former life is restored. Once again, the Citizens are blithe spirits living their pleasurable lives day by day. The infants and fetuses occupying Nursery at the moment of the Great Calamity are now maturing toward the end of their Blue years. Once again, the population reaching saturation, the Sandmen renew the ritual of Carrousel, for it is time the Citizens had other diversions.

The first one of the rebuilt City sees a glut of white-robed figures—all those thirty and over, who didn’t die in the Great Calamity. The Law of the City is restored. Fifty-eight Runners were terminated that day, Tremayne Four accounting for the cessation of twenty.

Yet, Outside, beyond the City, beyond the blue planet, life continued...somewhat unaffected, except for the major changes the Meldanans were effecting at Sanctuary II on Luna.

Many years later, Tregar watched as his wife and adopted son, the one he claimed as his own on Meldana, transported to the surface of the planet called Earth. According to his calculations, the Earth year, the year of the still existing City was Twenty-Two-Ninety-Two. They boy they named Stalas was in late adolescence.

To himself, Tregar admitted he’d trapped the woman L’Pira into being his consort, not because he loved her, but because he wanted the power which being the Matriarch’s consort allowed him. He’d always admired her, even been a bit jealous of his brother’s marriage to her. If Tlasus’ essence hadn’t visited him that time long ago, and told him his intentions, Tregar could never have won the wager with the former Matriarch.

The scanners showed the two were on the surface of the planet now, inside a living complex and a particular unit in that vast City, the same which he’d lowered L’Pira to seventeen Earth years past.

The Sandman entered his unit, bone-tired from the day’s work—chasing and terminating Runners. For him, although not for other Sandmen, it was a thankless job, one of necessity, rather than pleasure. Tried as he was, he'd stopped briefly at the unit of Jonathan 3, a DS Operative seven years his junior but his best friend, once more reassuring himself that Jonathan would care for the most important person in his life should he not return one day. As he walked toward the glass wall comprising an entire portion of the living unit, he ran a hand through his slightly wavy, light brown hair, while looking out onto the sleeping City, where a few isolated flicks of light in the mazetubes passed below him, along with a few motes of color, together or separately, in the gardens, where Citizens returned to their own units or others to spend the night’s hours.

He was brooding, something he’d often done these last years, in the hours he spent alone, as if his life was incomplete, as isolated as that full moon beyond the domes. He wished he could travel beyond the moon, far beyond to another world, another existence where men didn’t habitually live to die. For almost twenty-years he’d felt this way, wanting to be elsewhere, with only a brief respite of a few short, glorious weeks of happiness and satisfaction.

There was a noise like a gasp from the sleeping room, and he swiveled, listening. But there was nothing more. The breeze of the air unit, most likely. It sometimes did that, and he often mistook it for something...some _one_ else, and hoped, more and more, for it to be a certain someone with gray eyes.

The door signal buzzed just then, and he pressed the release button on the desk by the game area. A willow-slim girl of about sixteen entered, a smile on her face above a black tunic and green tights. When he saw her, the man smiled, too, since she represented the only bright thing in his otherwise desolate life—hair long and dark, disarming gray eyes...the same as her seed-mother’s.

“Come for another disc, Vera?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, Francis. I know I must be a terrible bother, borrowing things all the time, but the girls in my unit just don’t care about reading, and I can’t seem to get enough.”

“Don’t mind a bit. After all, what’s a big brother for, huh? Take all you want.”

The girl crossed to the console rack and started thumbing through the row upon row of literary discs, while Francis watched her, as he sometimes did, from across the room.

“Francis...?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever wonder about your seed-parents...our mother and your father?”

“Sure, I suppose everyone does at one time or another. It’s just something you learn to accept as happening. It doesn’t do any good to wonder too hard.”

She looked up from the disc racks. “But our parents were Sandmen, even my seed-mother. Don’t you ever wonder what they were like...whether they even liked each other?”

“Friendship doesn’t enter into it,” he answered matter-of-factly, fooling no one but her, least of all himself. “Certainly, Francis Seven was one of the best. As for Vera Three, well, there’s...there’s never been another like her.” He hoped she didn’t see the hint of moisture in his eyes. “Except, of course, for you. You’re bound to be exceptionally good at your work.”

“Oh, come on, you’re going to swell my head before I even finish training.”

“No way,” he said, coming to her side. “You’re much too level-headed for that to happen.” He stroked her long hair affectionately. “Better get back to your unit before curfew. It’s getting late.”

She sighed. “Yeah, guess you’re right. See you on monitor duty.”

As she left through the door, he responded, “Sure, see you then.”

When she’d gone, he returned to his brooding, sitting awhile in the flowchair then popping up to pace the room like a caged tiger. Stopping momentarily by the desk, he picked up the Circuit control, looked at it and threw it across the room, cursing, “Damn you, Vera. Why couldn’t you have come back?" he asked. "Why couldn’t you at least let me know where you are?” 

He strode into the sleeping area, only to be brought up short. There, beside the bed stood a woman, tall and stately, dressed in glowing metallic robe and skinsuit. Her hair was black as the night sky, her eyes the gray of his memories.

“Francis.”

“Vera?” He took a step toward her, unbelieving. “I was just thinking about...”

“I know.” Her eyes were sad and inquiring, melting his doubts.

Crossing the distance, he took her into his arms, and she clung to him like a lost child,

weeping against his shoulder and holding him closer, while he murmured her name over and over into the fragrance of her silky hair.

She pulled away at last and gazed into his eyes. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I you. Why have you been away so long? Why didn’t you—?”

She put a finger to his lips. “I’ve brought someone with me.” Her eyes moved to where a young male with fathomless green eyes stood, taking in the scene and dressed in a skinsuit of pale blue, his thick blond hair forming a luxurious helmet around his tanned features.

The teenager seemed uncertain, looking to the woman for strength. She nodded, smiling.

“Hello, Father,” he said shyly.

This time it was Francis’ turn to look to the woman beside him. “Father? You mean he’s my son...our son?”

She nodded. "If you’re truly the man I knew as Francis Seven then as Ballard Two, and later still as Tremayne Four, then he is your son, regardless of his appearance.”

“But how? He doesn’t even—"

“It’s the Essence Resemblance. My late husband Tlasus was his initiating lifeforce and now Stalas’ to keep. Yet he will always bear the physical characteristics of Tlasus.”

She dismissed the young man with a nod of her head, and he left the room.

Francis watched him go, still puzzled, but there were other questions he must ask. “You’re staying, aren’t you?”

“I cannot,” she said, eyes steady and unmoved by emotion.

He stroked her arms, studying her whole form. “You look so tired. Your eyes—"

“Being a Matriarch is tiring.”

He pulled her gently to the bed, sitting her beside him. “In four more years, I’m going to Sanctuary...for good this time.” He paused, looking for a response which never came. “I want you to come with me, join me there.”

She hung her head. “If I were only younger, but I’m not. I can no longer think of myself and my happiness.” Now her eyes met his. “I must also consider my obligations to my people.”

Taking her hands in his, he said, “But there are others who could rule, such as your daughter.”

“Yes, she could and has done so in my absences.”

“Then what is it? Don’t you want to be with me?”

Her eyes grew even sadder. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to be with you again. I’ve dreamed of it so long, dreamed of... But it just can’t be.”

Francis took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Why?”

“It’s Tregar. He’s my husband now.”

Francis rose from the bed. “Your husband! That cold-eyed general? How?”

She reached out to him. “Please, it wasn’t my choice.” Then, as if to justify the marriage, she added, “He’s dying, Francis. He’s dying and doesn’t even know it.”

“Good, I never liked him anyway. Stuck up alien.”

“Francis.” She was beside him once more. “There are other factors, too, not just Tregar.”

“What else could there be? We should be together. There’s nothing can change that—not now, not ever.”

Vera crossed the room, a shimmer of silver light. “Neither of us is young anymore. If I remember your original file, the Ballard one, you were born in Twenty-two-thirty-four. That would make you fifty-eight.”

He stared at her accusingly. “So what? Age never made any difference to us before. Neither of us looks our age, at least the med-techs at Sanctuary took care of my face permanently, and you...you haven’t aged a day in seventeen years.”

“And seventeen years ago, I lied. I told you I was forty, when I was actually sixty.”

Francis wasn’t shocked. “It still doesn’t matter. We belong together.”

“After Tregar dies?”

“Yes, after he dies.”

“Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you about Meldanans—especially our life span? I will most certainly outlive Treagar, but will you? It may be over twenty years. When will you die, Francis? How much longer can you cheat death?”

“Then leave him. Surely there’s some way you can dissolve the marriage. Leave him, and we can be together at Sanctuary—safe and happy. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” 

“I can’t leave him. He needs me.”

Francis exploded. “And I don’t?” Grabbing her arms, roughly, he repeated, “You think I don’t need you? Don’t I count anymore, Vera? Is that it? Don’t you care about my feelings?” He released her abruptly and walked away then turned to face her.

“You know what I’ve thought all these years—why you didn’t come back? I thought you were dead. I kept telling myself, ‘That’s the only thing that would keep her away—the only thing.’ I sure never thought it’d be another man.”

Joining him, she touched his cheek with her fingers, but he gripped her wrist in a vise, anger once more flooding his face. Through clenched teeth he asked, “Why the hell did you even bother to come back? Is this the way Meldanans get their kicks—inflicting pain on Humans? Why couldn’t you just let me be...let me stew in my own remorse...my own memories?”

With his other hand, he pointed toward the door leading to the living area. “Why? Why did you bring him here?”

Her lips trembled. It was hard to remember she was supposed to be an unfeeling, emotionless Meldanan when this man, whose face had never left her thoughts throughout the years, spoke to her in such a manner, stinging her to the core. She wanted to lash out at him, as he’d lashed out at her with words and questions meant to hurt and humiliate. But she couldn’t. That time was long gone, and she had since regretted the way they parted, her selfish need for him to voice words he lacked the emotions to express from the heart not the brain. His eyes were blazing coals boring into hers as he awaited her answer. At least he was giving her chance. Maybe the last.

“I-I brought him because this City, in spite of all its vices, is his inheritance, and because he wanted to come.” She hesitated, trying to decipher in Francis’ cold stare how he was taking it, or more accurately, how he was interpreting her words. He still didn’t trust her to tell him the truth. “He wants to be like you,” she said. “He wants to continue your work when you do go to Sanctuary.”

But the Sandman still held her wrist in an unrelenting grasp and still stared at her face.

“By the gods, Francis, he is your son. You owe him that much.”

He shook her hand loose. “Does he know he’ll have to be a Sandman? Does he know he’ll have to kill Runners in order to convince everyone he isn’t a Runner sympathizer? Does he understand the role he’ll have to play, Vera? Can living on your sheltered planet prepare him for the totally different life here?”

“I’ve told him everything. He knows and accepts the conditions. He's been raised in Sanctuary II throughout most of his life, where I, too, have lived and taught him all I know, and where he could associate with those who've gone there from Earth.”

“I suppose you want me to arrange everything, play nursemaid to him, and even manage to train him.”

“He’s quite capable of taking care of himself. He doesn’t need a nursemaid and has already received a great deal of training. I believe you'll find him quite adequate in that regard.”

“Okay, I’ll accept him and integrate him into the City. But that still doesn’t settle things between us, does it?”

Gray eyes met his, pleading. “You just can’t accept there’s no hope for us, can you? Not now, not ever?”

Francis was now unbelievingly calm. “No, I can’t. There has to be a way.” He drew her into his arms, holding her unresisting body close, feeling her own arms go about him and tenderly clutch the fabric of his tunic. With her head buried on his shoulder, Francis thought he heard her crying and lifted her face to his. There were tears in those gray eyes, tears wetting her pale face.

“Hey, where’s that Meldanan stoicism?”

With difficulty, she pulled from his embrace. “You thought I was dead, and that’s why I didn’t come back?”

“Yes, but you’re obviously quite alive and more beautiful than ever.”

“No, Francis, I’m not alive.”

He laughed the deep-throated way on the first day so many years ago. “Come now, you’re as alive as I am. Ghosts don’t feel warm in your arms or cry on your shoulder.”

“You never believed me about the Meldanan essence, did you? You couldn’t believe such a thing survived after death to give comfort to the survivors. Now, you must believe.”

At that, she pulled up her robe’s stiff sleeve to expose her upper arm, revealing a glowing phosphoresce of gold where flesh should be.

Francis stared at it then looked up to the woman’s face, where she peeled the skin-like synthaskin away, revealing more golden effusion, the features of her eyes, nose and lips as distinct as they’d been on the synthaskin.

“I can assume solid form for twenty-four hours at a time. After that my energies quickly recede. In this form, I can do whatever a living person can do.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, my darling, not impossible. Confusing, perhaps, to an Earthling, who’s never believed what he couldn’t touch. Well, you’ve touched me, you’ve held me, and now you’ve finally seen what I truly am.”

Francis sat down heavily on the bed, confused. “But when I saw you last, you...how long have you been...?” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word, because he, like she’d done so many years before, couldn’t accept the fact of death.

“I died giving our son birth.” It was simple and direct. 

Feebly, his hand reached out to her then retracted again. He wanted to touch her, but something prevented him. She was totally unearthly and alien now—too much too soon for his mind to grasp and totally accept.

Vera glanced to the door and their son entered.

“Mother, the City—it’s everything you said and more.” He looked briefly at the man, who now stood regarding the woman. “Has he agreed...to take me?”

Vera smiled at her son. “Yes.”

Finally pulling his eyes away from her, Francis looked at the young man, his eyes stern. “You realize it will be a lot of work, a lot of deception.”

“Yes, sir. Mother’s told me about the additional training...and the Runners.”

“And you may not even be cut out for the Sanctuary work, though still have to be a Sandman—a good one.”

“I understand, sir.”

“There’s something else, too.” The black-clad man looked back to the alien woman. “It’s Vera Four. She doesn’t know about me, only thinks we share the same father.”

“We heard everything quite some time ago,” this Vera assured him. “Stelas understands.”

“Do you?” Francis asked him.

“I won’t say a word to her or in any other way so much as hint you’re anything than what you appear. But what will she think of me popping up like this?”

Francis grinned. “The City’s huge, big enough to swallow up another brother for seventeen years. Knowing her, she’ll just be glad to have someone her own age, who’ll also be a trainee.” Again, Francis grew stern. “We’ll name you Ballard Three.” He turned to the woman. “That’s perfect, don’t you th—?”

She was gone...nearly gone, her form visible merely as a faint golden light, the clothing and synthaskin of what had been her body already falling as she dissolved. In moments, nothing remained but that and the robe and suit, forming a glowing silver pile in the center of the room.

“She’s gone back through the continuum,” the new Ballard Three answered his father’s unspoken question.

“ _Farewell, Francis_ ,” a voice inside the Sandman’s head seemed to say. “ _I’ll think of you often_.”

Ballard swallowed hard, betraying more emotion than he was supposed to possess. “I’ll miss her.” 

Francis put an arm about his son's shoulder, sniffing slightly. “So will I, son. So will I.” He looked at this boy, more a man than a child. “But we’d better get going. You have an appointment with Computer for a lifeclock—a nice green one.”

They walked into the living area, Francis stopping by his ever-present card box, where he kept dispenser cards on all sorts of citizen and DS garments. Picking out one for green doublet and hose for Ballard, he said, “Be sure to hide your left palm until we get to Headquarters.”

They were words he’d not used in seventeen years, one which made his memory go back to that other night, when a strangely seductive woman had appeared in his unit, challenging every fiber in his body to understand her. He didn’t then and didn’t now. Perhaps he never would.

One thing he knew for certain. He’d never forget her. And it would be a long time before the City forgot the first Sandlady. A very long time.

The End

(But Continued in “A Sandlady By Any Other Name”)


End file.
